


Sex 101, or: That Time Castiel Asked Dean to Teach Him How to Have Sex

by betts



Series: Sex 101 Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, BDSM, Bottom Castiel, Comedy, Drag Queens, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gay Panic, Hypnotism, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Romance, Sexting, Slow Burn, Smut, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Sub Castiel, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean, Top Dean, Trans Character, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I want to have sex,' Castiel announces suddenly.</p><p>Dean chokes on his gulp of Baja Blast."</p><p>***</p><p>Wherein Dean teaches Cas how to have sex, and Cas teaches Dean why to have sex. </p><p>This fic is filled with music, literature, fluff, angst, smut, feels, and glitter. Lots and lots of glitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you begin! You should know that this is a multimedia fic. That is to say, I have a lot of songs linked within the chapters. It's not necessary to listen to them while you read, but it definitely adds to the experience if you do. 
> 
> So put your headphones on, turn the volume up, and enjoy!
> 
> [The complete soundtrack can be found here.](http://rd.io/x/Rl56LEMv2DTT/)
> 
> This fic is set sort of within an alternate season 9.

“I want to have sex,” Castiel announces suddenly.

Dean chokes on his gulp of Baja Blast. “What? Like right now?”

They’re both in the Impala, waiting for Sam to pick up his rabbit food take-out. Dean and Castiel had obviously opted for Taco Bell.

Castiel looks over at Dean like he’s a moron. “No, I mean… sometime. It’s something I’m interested in doing as a human.”

Dean figuratively chews on that a moment while literally chewing on his straw. He doesn’t quite know how to phrase his reply. “So… like… with a chick? Or a dude?”

Castiel returns to staring out the windshield of the Impala. “Does it matter?” 

“Uhh, I mean, kinda. I guess not. I dunno,” he replies noncommittally while rubbing the back of his neck. 

It is a very rare sight that Castiel takes down his dysthymic tax accountant mask. He looks down at his hands, and Dean can swear he sees him blush. “I guess I don’t know yet.”

Putting the pieces together, a mischievous grin spreads across Dean's face. “Well there’s only one way to find out.”

***

Four hours later, Dean and Cas are in the parking lot of a bar in some suburb in bumfuck nowhere, Ohio.

“You ready for this?” Dean asks, a little more excited at the prospect of hooking up his ex-angel friend than he should be. He’s not worried about a repeat of the last time he attempted this endeavor because Cas has since lost his psychic mojo.

Cas looks ten times more apprehensive than he did when admitting he didn’t know if he liked chicks or dudes. His eyes are wide and he’s trembling, staring off into space while not seeing anything at all. “I… no. No I’m not. Let’s forget I ever said anything. I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can! Look, we’ll go in there, grab a couple beers, watch the game, scout for chicks, chat ‘em up, and then you can take one back to the room and seal the deal.”

Castiel looks to Dean now, icy blue eyes blazing under the street lights of the parking lot, more anxious than Dean has ever seen him (which is saying something, given their history of almost getting killed on a weekly basis). “But isn’t that... _wrong?”_ he asks, with more curiosity than condescension. “Convincing a person that you like them, only to use their body for your own personal fulfillment?”

“Whoa, buddy," Dean replies, holding up his hands. "Couple things. One: we’re not convincing anyone we _like_ them. We’re convincing them we _want_ them. Two: sure, you’ll get your own personal fulfillment, but you gotta give a little too, you know what I’m saying?”

Castiel evidently does _not_ know what he is saying. He stares at Dean blankly.

“Okay,” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, acknowledging that the night ahead of him is going to be a long one. “Maybe we jumped into this too quickly–”

“Can I just watch?”

If Dean had been drinking a Baha Blast, he would have choked on it again. But he does not have a Baha Blast, so instead, he blinks at Cas in rapid succession. “...What?”

“Watch,” Cas replies, flat.

A silence settles over them so thick that Dean hears crickets in the distance. His mind blanks temporarily, and then he asks, his voice an octave higher than normal, “You mean me? And a chick? Go at it?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, all semblance of previous hesitation gone. “So I can learn how to properly fornicate.”

Dean sighs. “Okay dude, lesson one: no using the word ‘fornicate.’ And secondly, that’s what porn is for!”

Cas again looks at Dean like he’s an idiot. “I know that pornography is staged. It’s… fake. And I’m not interested in the experience that pornagraphic sex will afford me. I’m interested in… real sex. So I want to see real sex.”

Dean sighs again and paces across the span of the parking spot they’re standing in, pushing back the waves of sordid memories he'd rather not recount at the moment. “Man, this is weird. I dunno man.”

Cas remains silent.

Dean continues pacing, then spins around toward Cas and points at him. “Okay, here’s how this is gonna go. You follow my lead. Don’t say a word. Pretend you’re invisible. Keep your dick in your pants the whole night. I choose the chick. You have no voice and no vote in this, understood?”

A corner of Cas's lips twitch up, and he begins his night of silence at that moment by supplying a curt nod.

Dean about-faces with a huff and marches into the bar.

***

At the bar, Dean orders the both of them beers and shots of whiskey. He needs to be loosened up for whatever the hell is going to happen tonight. The chances they’re even going to find a chick in suburbia who will let a dude watch them fuck is close to zero. Dean considers his options, scouting the bar for hot tipsy chicks who look like they’re out to get laid. Luckily, it’s a Friday night and the place is hopping. Dean looks over to Castiel, who is nursing his beer and staring at nothing in particular. The only sign of Castiel’s anxiety, Dean notices, is the way his sharp, stubbly jawline is clenched shut. Dean admits that their ratio of attractiveness is what makes this idea even remotely plausible: Dean is a leather-coat-wearing, sly-talking, badass sex god; and Castiel is a deliciously-shy, blue-eyed, bedheaded hottie.

Dean decides not to order another drink, because he realizes he just referred to Cas in his head as a _bedheaded hottie_.

 _But it’s a totally objective observation_ , he adds.

Across the bar, Dean spots a woman spotting him. The chair across from her is empty, so Dean catches Castiel’s eye and hunter-signs to him that he’s going to check out the brunette in the corner. Cas nods.

Dean grabs his beer and meanders over to the woman, who immediately blushes and looks away from him. “Whatcha drinking?” he asks her casually.

She smiles at him, shy and sheepish, but before she can reply, she looks over Dean’s shoulder and her eyes widen. Dean turns to see a dude who is admittedly bigger than him looking very angry, and throws his hands up in an apologetic gesture, swipes his beer off the table, and walks quickly back to the bar.

He doesn’t say a word to Cas, but he can see the bastard smirking again.

A half hour passes. Dean has his eye on a woman who is at the bar seemingly alone. She keeps checking the clock on her cell phone and sighing, nursing a beer while looking bored and dejected.

Perfect.

Dean elbows Cas and nods his head in the redhead’s direction. Cas nods, and Dean slides over the three barstools between them to sit next to her.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he begins, “but you kinda look like you just got stood up.”

She looks at him, at first appearing genuinely irritated, but then her expression softens. “I guess I did. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself until now.”

“Hey, that sucks,” he replies, tone softening. After a brief pause, he grins. “But it looks like your beer is almost empty, so how about I order you another one and we can work on improving your night.”

She smiles at him. “I’d like that.”

Dean orders both of them beers and shots and whatever else the woman asks for, and they chat for an hour and a half.

Her name is Cheryl and she’s a paralegal in town. She was supposed to meet a guy she’d been talking to on the Internet for a couple weeks but he was a no show. Now she’s tipsy, and her cheeks are a little pink, and she’s telling Dean a story about how she got invited to do amateur hour at a strip club on Bourbon Street, which amuses Dean more than he can admit to her. They’re sitting close together so that their knees are touching. Dean can smell her perfume; the music is so loud that she has to speak right in his ear, while periodically grazing it with her lips, and it’s driving Dean crazy.

Dean thinks she’s pretty cool. And really hot, with a _va-va-va-voom_ kind of curvy body, and lips equally as plush. She also seems like she has her shit together, so Dean doesn’t want to bullshit her. He realizes now is as good a time as any to bring up his proposition.

“So speaking of amateur hour,” he says, sipping his beer. “See that guy over there?” He nods in Castiel’s direction.

She looks momentarily apprehensive upon looking at Castiel, but Dean leans into her and takes his turn grazing her ear with his lips, feeling her tremble faintly beside him.

“Do you... want to come home with us?” Dean rumbles in her ear.

Her eyes widen, she leans back, and stammers, “I… uhh, I’ve never… I can’t…” and looks down at her hands.

Dean quickly fills in the details. “He won’t be involved. He just wants to watch. That’s what he’s into. It would be all you and me, babe.” He takes her hesitation to dip his lips to her neck and press one kiss gently below her ear. Pulling away, he looks at her and gives her The Smoulder, looking from her eyes to her lips and back up again.

Her eyes are wide, her cheeks are flushed, and she’s breathing heavily. After staring at Dean for a few tense moments, she comes to a decision and nods. “Yeah. Yeah okay.” She knocks back the rest of her beer and stands. “Let’s do this.”

Dean gives her the name and room number of the motel they’re staying at and tells her they’ll meet her there in twenty. He pays the tab, and grabs Cas by the elbow to drag them out of there.

***

There’s a soft knock on the motel room door. Dean has Cas situated in a chair in a dark corner of the room, after making him take off his suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt to look slightly less creepy. Dean and Cas haven't exchanged any verbal words since their discussion in the parking lot, which made the drive home from the bar terrifically awkward and tense.

Dean opens the door to find Cheryl, still clad in her tight-fitting, bright red dress, with her ample chest perfectly accentuated.

He smiles at her, and she smiles back, looking less nervous and more excited than she had at the bar. Dean, never one for words where actions are better suited, pulls her into the room, shuts the door, and kisses her, slow and deep.

Her lip gloss tastes like cherries and her mouth is small and perfect. Dean explores her lips with his tongue and teeth, gently nibbling her bottom lip until he has her gasping and moaning lightly. He rubs his hands all over her back and hips and ass while she keeps her fingers tangled in his hair. After moving slowly down her neck with kisses, he pulls away, taking her by the hand and leading her over to the bed.

He pulls the zipper down on her dress, and she steps out of it, revealing a matching set of lacy black underwear. She keeps her heels on.

Dean affirms that this chick is _really_ cool.

He takes off his shirt while she unbuckles and unzips his pants, dragging her nails around his hips and admiring him. Dean steps out of his jeans and lowers her onto the bed in such a way as to give Cas the best view.

Dean tries to avoid looking at Cas, who is sitting not four feet away from them, staring with interest at the proceedings in front of him, as though examining an interesting science project.

Dean also tries to avoid thinking of Castiel’s blue eyes while staring into Cheryl’s grey ones. He reaches around her back and unhooks her bra, pulling it off to reveal a perfect, perky set of Ds. Leaning forward, he gently trails kisses from her lips to her neck to her chest until he has his lips wrapped around one nipple while his hand fondles the other.

The small moans and gasps Cheryl makes are igniting the fire in Dean, who trails his hand down her body and between her legs. He softly runs his fingers up and down her panties, barely grazing her clit, until she spreads her legs and pants, “Oh Dean, oh Dean please…”

Dean moves back up her body and kisses her again, sliding her panties to the side to dip his fingers in her. She’s soaked, and he runs circles around her clit.

She grips the blankets behind her head and bites her bottom lip while Dean nibbles at her neck and enters her with his middle finger. She’s beyond coherence, muttering, “Oh god, oh please oh god.”

Dean smirks into her neck and asks, “Please what?” while slipping another finger into her and pressing up into her g-spot.

She moans loudly and bucks deeper onto his fingers. Breathlessly, she whimpers, “Please… down… me… go. _Please._ ”

Dean responds with a simple, "Mmm," his lips humming into the hollow of her throat. He’s rock hard, but he will never deny someone his tongue, especially this woman so kind as to oblige Castiel’s voyeuristic request—

Dean had forgotten about Castiel, and briefly looks up at him as he sits up to slide Cheryl’s panties down her legs.

When his eyes meet Castiel’s, the fire burning in Dean switches from a candle to a bonfire. Cas is staring at him with barely hidden desire. His face is flushed and he’s biting his nails, a habit Dean didn’t think Cas even had. His arm is crossed over his chest and he’s slouching a bit. Cas looks so utterly human, so filled with want…

Dean forces his attention back to the task at hand. Cheryl has her eyes closed and is biting her lower lip, squirming under Dean. He trails kisses down her body, stopping again at her breasts to tease and bite her nipples, earning him another shockingly loud moan.

Settling down between her legs, he pauses to kiss and bite her inner thighs, all around her entrance without touching her, licking around her lips while his hands rub up and down her sides.

She has her hands tangled in Dean’s hair, begging for mercy and whispering, “Oh please please please,” over and over. Dean thinks she’s going to come before he even starts, so he dives in, lapping voraciously at her. He runs his tongue up and down her entrance and circles it around her clit until she has to bite her knuckles not to scream.

He pulls away to lick his fingers and then enters her with them, rocking up against her g-spot and keeping rhythm with the swipes of his tongue across her clit.

It’s only a matter of minutes until Dean applies more pressure and steadily pumps into her faster and harder, and she’s so beyond words that she’s biting down on her hand so she won’t scream, breathing so quickly that she might hyperventilate, until finally she comes, hard and loud. Dean can feel her walls clench down on his fingers repeatedly as he continues pumping them into her, riding out wave upon wave of her orgasm.

He sits up and wipes off his face with the back of his hand. Cheryl looks blissed out, blinking slowly and chest heaving. Dean climbs over and reaches into the bedside table to retrieve a condom, tearing the package open and rolling it over himself.

He leans back over Cheryl and kisses her again, and she moans at the taste of herself on him. He reaches down and pumps his dick a few times, then slides it against her wetness while sucking on her lower lip.

It’s only moments before she’s panting into him again, hooking her legs around his back, grabbing his hair and kissing him like she hadn’t just had an explosive orgasm two minutes ago.

Dean continues slowly sliding against her until she meets his rhythm and they’re teasing each other: he barely enters her and then pulls out again, slides up and down against her, over and over, until he can’t hold back anymore.

“May I?” he pants, his voice low and quiet, in her ear.

She can’t speak, only nods and gives a high pitched, “Uh huh."

He puts just the tip of himself in her and then pauses. She trembles below him, waiting, and he peppers her mouth with light kisses before kissing her again, slow and intense. She’s whimpering, and all of their muscles are tensed. Then, when he thinks both of them might break from the tension, he pushes himself all the way into her, pumping into her hard and deep while she claws at his back, gasping and moaning and biting and kissing him. He buries his face in her neck, breathing heavy and unable to control his own gasps.

They find a rhythm, but she’s so tight and perfect that after a few minutes, he’s worried he’ll come, so he pulls out and grips the bottom of his dick while guiding her onto her stomach. She gets up on her knees and buries her face in a pillow.

Dean lines himself up and presses into her again, staring at her perfectly pale, perfectly round ass. He grabs her hips and pounds into her. The noises she’s making are enough to wake up the entire city.

Dean is lost in the moment, eyes closed, rhythmically driving into a beautiful woman whose ass is at the perfect angle, and he feels the familiar pressure in him building. He thinks he’s going to lose it, when he looks up again.

Cas looks destroyed: mouth ajar, panting frantically, clutching at his knees so hard that his knuckles are white. Dean has never seen him filled with such open, wanton lust. Their eyes meet, and Castiel looks at Dean with a white-hot, blatant, burning passion…

That’s all it takes before Dean is coming hard, pumping furiously into Cheryl who is grinding back on him. Dean can’t tear his eyes away from Cas’ as he comes, and Cas can’t seem to control the low, guttural moan that escapes him.

There’s a split second mid-orgasm when Dean imagines fucking Castiel in this very position, and it gives him another intense wave of pleasure before he quickly dismisses the image.

His orgasm finally subsides and he breaks eye contact with Castiel, slowly pulling himself out of Cheryl.

He hears shuffling and looks up to see Cas darting from his chair into the bathroom, and slamming the door shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean doesn’t really know what to say. Half of him wants to run away and hide, and the other half gets a pleasant chill down his spine whenever he looks at Cas. He doesn’t know what happened, but something changed last night."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Dean tries to use booze and women to drown out his gay panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support on the first chapter! I hope everyone likes voyeur!Cas and exhibitionist!Dean.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated (if you feel comfortable touching your keyboard after what you do to yourself while reading this chapter, that is).
> 
> Enjoy!

The following day, Dean and Castiel don't mention the events of the night prior. Not only do they not discuss them, they don’t talk at all.

After about fifteen minutes, Sam notices.

They’re at a diner for breakfast, pointedly not looking at one another. Dean stares out the window, and Cas stares into the space across from him.

Sam looks back and forth between them while pushing his side salad around in its bowl. “So get this,” he begins, trying to break the tension. “I read an article yesterday that made it sound like there’s a vampire den in Indianapolis. I was thinking we could check it out.”

Neither of them respond, or make any indication that they heard what Sam said at all.

He tries again. “So get this. I found out how we can launder money by getting in on this prostitution ring in New York. I was thinking we could check it out.”

Nothing.

Sam sighs and drops his fork on his plate. “What the hell is going on with you two?”

Dean and Cas look at Sam. “What do you mean?” they ask in unison.

Sam sighs again and flails his arms between the two of them. “This… thing! Whatever is going on here that’s making you two so damn awkward.”

They both look down and mumble, “Nothing.”

Mouth agape, Sam looks back and forth between them again, and murmurs, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He pulls out his wallet and slaps a twenty on the table. “I’m getting the fuck outta dodge before whatever is going on here blows up. If you need me, I’ll be tracking that vampire den.” He turns on his heel and leaves the diner.

Cas and Dean meet each other’s gaze briefly.

“Cas…” Dean begins while Cas says, “Dean…”

“About last night…” they say in unison.

Dean clears his throat.

Cas says plainly, “That was very… educational. Thank you.”

Dean doesn’t really know what to say. Half of him wants to run away and hide, and the other half gets a pleasant chill down his spine whenever he looks at Cas. He doesn’t know what happened, but something changed last night.

He shoves that thought as far back into his mind as he possibly can, in the broom closet of his mind labeled _Things I Never Want to Think About Again_.

It’s so full, he can barely close the door on it, but he does, and clears his throat again. “Yeah,” is all he can think of to say.

They finish their food in uncomfortable silence.

***

With Sam gone and no cases to work on, Dean can’t find much to do. He needs to keep his mind occupied lest the loud banging noise from his mental broom closet gets the best of him.

Cas flips channels on the tv in the motel room while Dean paces back and forth.

He tries looking at some Busty Asian Beauties, but he keeps thinking about the way Cas looked at him last night, which leads to thinking about Cas in various states of undress, which leads to thinking of Cas in very compromising positions, which leads to Dean pouring himself another drink and slamming that damn door again. He doesn’t want to think about Cas or Rhonda Hurley's pink panties or all those years he spent in Dallas.

He cracks open a book but can’t read a word of it because he keeps thinking of Cas. He searches news articles looking for a hunt but keeps losing track of his thoughts because he keeps thinking of Cas. He looks up to take a deep breath and there’s Cas. Cas is everywhere: Dean can’t escape.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean exclaims as he slams his drink on the table and stands.

Cas starts. “What?!”

Dean stares at him, clenching his fists and breathing heavy.

Cas looks at him, bewildered, his eyebrows knit into his forehead, and turned all the way around toward Dean so that his chin is resting on his hand on the back of the couch.

Dean squares his jaw and pauses. He sets his drink down, then grabs his jacket and mutters, “I’m going out,” slamming the door (both of them) shut behind him.

***

Dean drives to a bar a couple blocks away from the motel room. He sits down and immediately starts downing shot after shot of whiskey in hopes to drown out whatever the hell is knocking around in his head.

Like everything in life, he needs to beat this into submission.

It’s not long until the bartender takes an interest in him.

She’s a short brunette in a tight white v-neck t-shirt and a black mini skirt. Her entire right arm is tattooed with a strawberry patch, and her hair has a streak of blue in it. She leans across the bar near Dean and sips at her Coke. “So what’s your deal, man?” she asks.

Dean finishes his drink in one gulp and shrugs. “Don’t have one. Made one once though. Went to hell for it,” he grumbles, eyes fixed on the tv.

“Well okay then." She stares at him for a moment. "What’s your name?”

He finally meets her gaze, and pushes his empty glass toward her. “Dean.”

“Amanda,” she responds. “Another?”

“You got it," he says with a shake of his head. "Pour yourself one too. Like my old man always said: you’re only an alcoholic if you drink alone.”

Amanda pours the drinks and passes one to Dean. “Your father was a smart man.”

“Yeah, well..." He takes a gulp. "Didn’t stop him from drinking alone.”

They watch tv in silence together.

After a few minutes, Amanda turns back to Dean. “Last call is soon. You wanna meet me out back when I’m done closing up? Grab a smoke or something?”

Dean meets her eyes, which are so unlike Castiel's: big and brown, and not icy blue, nor boring holes into Dean's soul. But he doesn't want to think about that right now. “Why not?” he replies with a grin.

***

Dean leans against the Impala with a cigarette in his hand. He quit smoking years ago, but every once in a while when he drinks a bit too much, a good ol’ death stick really hits the spot.

Amanda is leaning on the car next to him smoking too. They’re silent, but it’s a comfortable silence. The kind two people sharing a smoke in the middle of the night in the parking lot behind a closed bar usually share.

Dean gets to the end of his and puts it out with his boot. Amanda does the same, then stands in front of him and gives him a stern look.

Dean stares back at her. He’s had too many drinks to figure which of his many stares he’s giving, but he’s hoping it’s a sexy one, and not a dopey drunk one.

Amanda stands on her tip toes and pulls Dean down for a kiss.

He leans into her, wrapping his arms around her thin body and bringing her in close. When it starts to get heated, Dean pulls away, and opens the door of the back seat of the Impala. Amanda climbs in and he follows. She straddles him and takes his bottom lip between her teeth, tugging at it gently while maintaining fierce eye contact.

Dean moans. This is exactly what he needs: a hot female body writhing on top of his. No messy-haired ex-angel to fuck with his perception of reality. He’s just doing what his body wants.

And his body wants women. Not men. Women. At this moment specifically, it wants short, thin, tattooed women who are ravaging his neck and grinding on top of him.

Dean puts his hands on Amanda’s hips and slides her skirt up.

She takes his hand and guides it between her legs. Noting that she’s not wearing panties, Dean gently slides his fingers up and down the length of her slit to get them wet, then curls them up to enter her. She starts rocking on his hand and breathing heavily into his neck, alternating between kissing and biting and sucking on any part of him she can put her mouth on.

Dean starts thinking about Castiel’s expression last night: a mixture of longing and confusion and… jealousy? He can’t get the image out of his head, of Cas running into the bathroom. He thinks about Cas this morning and how he was clueless about what to say but was brave enough to speak anyway. He thinks about what Cas is doing right now, if he’s still at the motel room, what he’s wearing, if he’s touching himself…

Dean gently pulls his fingers out and pushes Amanda away. “I’m… I’m really sorry. I can’t do this right now.”

He was expecting anger, but she only looks as apathetic as she did at the bar. She shrugs and sighs. “Well that sucks.”

“It’s not you, I promise. You’re super hot and I love the tattoo and the hair thing, and under normal circumstances, I’d take you back to my place but—”

“You’re married,” she finishes.

Dean opens his mouth to correct her, then pauses. That’s a much simpler excuse than the real reason Dean stopped.

Come to think of it, Dean doesn’t even know what the real reason is, so he stays silent.

“Goddammit. Every damn time.” She pulls her skirt down and slides off of Dean’s lap. “Well it was nice meeting you, Dean. Feel free to come back and see me the next time you and your wife get into a fight.” Then she exits the car, slamming the door behind her.

***

It’s 3am when Dean gets back to the motel. The room is dark save for the full moon shining in the window by the two double beds. Sammy is still nowhere to be found.

Dean takes off his clothes except for his boxers, falls back on top of the covers, and closes his eyes.

He can’t sleep.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, drunkenly staring at the ceiling and retelling himself the entire plot of all six Star Wars movies, trying to keep Cas as far out of his mind as is possible, what with the dude sleeping three feet away.

After a while, he hears Cas shift in the bed next to him, but he doesn’t still. He hears friction under the covers, like only his arm is moving, up and down—

Dean realizes with alarm that Cas might be beating off right next to him.

He hears a small groan.

And damn if it doesn’t immediately make Dean hard.

Dean wonders if Cas is doing this in his sleep, or half-sleep, or if he’s awake and just fucking with Dean’s head. Or maybe Dean is the one who’s asleep and this is some weird, lucid sex dream.

He chances a glance over to Cas, who has the covers haphazardly strewn across his midsection. One arm is above his head and the other is underneath the covers doing what Dean can now officially confirm is masturbating.

Cas’ eyes are closed, but Dean whispers, “Cas?”

Cas opens his eyes, rolls his head to the side, sees Dean, and smiles sleepily. He continues touching himself for a moment before full awareness hits and he looks briefly alarmed. He squeezes his eyes shut while taking his hand out from under the covers. “I’m sorry, Dean. This keeps happening. I just… I can’t…”

“Get off?” Dean supplies.

“Yeah. That." Cas replies, gruff. "I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m shattering into a million pieces.”

Dean, tired and drunk, calmed by Castiel’s presence and the cover of night, asks, “What’ll help?”

Cas hesitates, but asks quietly, “Can I watch you again?”

Dean chuckles, replying, “Look, man, as much as I’d love to call Cheryl back, I don’t think she’d—”

“No,” Cas interrupts. “Just you.”

Goddamn kinky bastard.

Without letting himself think about it and without answering, Dean lifts his hips off the bed to slide his boxers off. He’s already rock hard and leaking.

 _From earlier_ , he convinces himself. He’s just still riled up from earlier.

He hears Cas shift to his side to get a better view. Dean glances at him and sees that he’s propped up on one arm, his other arm under the covers in its original position. Like the night before, he merely looks curious.

Dean looks away and closes his eyes, breathing deeply and trailing his hands over his body. He stops at a nipple and pinches it, and grazes his hip bone with the tips of his fingers. His dick leaps in appreciation as Dean tries to bring back the image of Amanda grinding against him, of Cheryl arching her back off the bed as she came.

Neither of those thoughts are really doing it for him, so he finally relents, opening the door of his mental broom closet and procuring an image of Castiel sprawled out underneath him, writhing, Dean balls deep inside him and Cas screaming for more; his usual immovable stone expression completely dropped, filled only with all the pure human pleasure Dean can provide him.

Dean finally lets himself touch his dick, and breathes a loud groan of relief. He strokes himself gently at first, covering his palm and fingers in precum, then gradually increases the pressure of his grip on himself. He pulls long and slow, perfecting each movement, imagining his hand on Cas’ dick moving this exact same way, his thrusts timed with his fist. He imagines drawing it out until Cas falls apart beneath him.

Dean can’t help himself. He opens his eyes and looks over at Cas, who is laying on his back with his head turned to Dean, wide-eyed, biting his lower lip and breathing hard. His hand is moving at the same pace as Dean’s.

Dean wants nothing more than to move over to the bed next to his, shove the covers off, and take Cas’ dick so far in his mouth he can swallow around it. He wants to stretch Cas open until he begs to be filled. He wants to make Cas feel the centuries worth of pleasure he missed out on as an angel.

But he can’t.

Instead, he stares at Cas staring back at him, both moving in rhythm to one another, both beginning to breathe harder and harder.

Cas opens his mouth and lets out a sudden groan, pleading, “Dean…”

Dean comes while drowning in the blue of Cas’ eyes, hot streaks gushing onto his chest, and moaning Castiel’s name.

Thankfully for the booze, the long day, and the incredible orgasm, Dean falls asleep moments later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Castiel was not lying when he told Dean he didn’t know if he preferred women or men.
> 
> Because as far as Cas can tell, he only prefers Dean."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein ALL OF THE ANGST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas POV! 
> 
> Again, I appreciate the overwhelming response I've been getting on this fic, and I welcome your feedback!

Castiel wakes up the next morning slowly, his mind not used to the sensation of unconsciousness. He finds the feeling reminds him of heaven: pleasant, but powerless.

He opens his eyes and blinks a few times. The mid-morning sun is streaking through the window and landing in a large patch across the pile of snoring blankets in the bed next to him.

Closing his eyes, he savors the moment, pretending that there isn’t several feet of space between them.

Castiel then realizes that he is uncomfortably crusty in places that aren’t normally crusted.

He sighs, and contemplates the myriad of ways he has had to learn that the human body is one of the most pathetic, revolting inventions of his father’s.

He can appreciate the precarious balance of it, though: humans are capable of feeling in every way the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Unfathomable pain and euphoric pleasure. Life is a war for the average human, and every day is a battle unto itself, for no reason at all than to simply continue on until they all finally lose. And losing is inevitable.

Cas sighs again, and gets up to take a shower.

***

Castiel sits at the small table in the drab kitchenette of the motel room. Dean is still sleeping soundly, but has rolled over to expose a majority of his torso and the entirety of his left hip and leg from beneath the covers.

Cas does not admit to himself how long he spends staring at the sight in front of him.

He forces himself to tear his gaze away and focus on his current research while eating a dry, cold, plain bagel. He never thought that one day he would be picky about the fuel he ingests; it’s such a petty thing with which to concern oneself. But this bagel, he realizes, really doesn’t “hit the spot,” as Dean would say (usually in the context of pie).

Currently, Castiel is interested in sex. He is interested in identifying himself as an individual human being. And individual human beings all generally seem to have individual human being preferences on copulation.

This is another aspect of humanity that he used to think seemed petty. Sex, when he was an angel, was merely a utilitarian function in order to advance the species. It was animalistic, beneath him.

Now the only thing he wants beneath him is Dean.

But he doesn’t like admitting that to himself, either.

When Cas first understood the concept of attraction, he was confused. He remembers the exact moment when Dean first told him to get out of his personal space, that Dean didn’t simply  _move_ , he stared at first. His eyes flickered down to Cas’ lips and then back up to his eyes. And then he licked his own lips. It was such a tiny thing, less than a second, but Cas felt like he had been socked in the gut. It took the wind out of him. And when he thinks back to it, he gets that same reaction. Every time.

Now Castiel has many more moments to add to the bank of memories that make him breathe funny.

Last night being one of them. The night before being another.

Unfortunately, when Cas learned that what he felt toward Dean was _attraction_ , his research found that humans seem to generally only be attracted to roughly fifty percent of the other humans. Despite evolution and the concept of sentience and free will, men and women still prefer their opposites, presumably in an effort to continue their species.

In the grand scheme of his sexual education, which has exponentially increased in the past forty-eight hours, he still finds such an idea animalistic. Reductionist. Irrational. It just feels _wrong_ , given the capacity of the human mind.

Castiel was not lying when he told Dean he didn’t know if he preferred women or men.

Because as far as Cas can tell, he only prefers Dean.

But Dean can never know that, because Cas understands that he is what is referred to as a _heterosexual,_ and from what Cas has read, it is unethical to attempt to pursue someone of a differing sexual orientation.

Castiel spends the next hour on Dean’s laptop clicking around Wikipedia. He starts with the term “fetish,” and when Dean finally stirs, he’s almost through reading the article on “Kinsey Reports,” and is just about to click on the link to the word “sadomasochism.”

As Dean is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Castiel reads the sentence, “Sadomasochism is the giving or receiving of pleasure—often sexual—from acts involving the infliction or reception of pain or humiliation.”

Dean sits up and stretches. Cas is distracted from his reading because in the shuffle, the blanket falls off of him almost entirely, and Cas can now see more of Dean Winchester than he has ever seen in the light of day.

He gulps.

And for the life of him, he cannot tear his eyes away.

He also cannot stop his eyes from widening and his cheeks from flushing when Dean throws the rest of the blankets off of himself unceremoniously and trudges across the room, mere feet in front of Cas, completely naked, and sporting what he has come to learn is referred to as _morning wood_.

When Dean shuts the bathroom door behind him and turns on the shower, Castiel exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He is also alarmingly hard, which he didn’t think was possible after last night. He honestly thought he was dying at the time. He thought his body had turned into a nuclear bomb, that his heart would explode right out of his chest and take out the entire city.

Instead, he just managed to coat himself in what he understood to be human seed, but what he did not understand would turn into the disappointing crust he found all over his abdomen this morning.

 _Human bodies_ , he thinks.  _Vile_.

 _But wonderful_ , he adds. He feels a small thrill at the idea he can feel that feeling he felt last night again. And again. And again. Whenever he wants it.

Dean comes out of the bathroom clad only in a towel while Castiel reads the Wikipedia article on “Top (BDSM).” He is fascinated by the entire paradigm of sex; the spectrum of love to pain, and how those constructs are more similar to each other than not. Cas finds that they generally go hand in hand, like a Venn diagram that almost eclipses itself.

Dean puts his duffel bag on his unmade bed and shuffles around for some clothes. Castiel looks up at him when he sees out of the corner of his eye that Dean is taking off his towel and dropping it to the floor next to him, pulling out a pair of black briefs and bending over to put them on.

Castiel has never had a more physical reaction to anything in his (human) life (short although it may thus far be). He has to press his palm against his dick just to calm it down. He never thought he would find the sight of a human’s gluteus maximus, whose sole function is to drive force upwards from a squatting position— an obviously necessary movement— so… _hhhnnnnnnggg_.

For the first time, Castiel cannot manage to adequately search through the dictionary of his mind to find the proper word for the glorious sight that is Dean Winchester’s ass.

He's too busy forcing down both his dick and the involuntary noises that want to escape him.

Dean finishes getting dressed, which Cas watches with intense interest while trying not to touch himself inappropriately (a practice which he understands is considered rude in polite company, but a battle he is losing nevertheless). He combs his fingers through his wet hair and, clad in a black t-shirt and jeans, sits on the bed to put on his socks. He doesn't look at Castiel, which is for the best, considering Cas cannot control whatever face he’s making right now, and his cheeks are completely aflame.

He looks back to the computer, closes the browser, and shuts the laptop, while Dean says, “I think we should head back to the bunker today. I haven’t heard from Sammy and it doesn’t look like there’s anything for us here anymore.”

Castiel pretends to check the time on his phone, a practice he learned is customary when someone proposes a plan, though it’s just rote memorization that he does this; he’s still not accustomed to the concept of time. Until recently, it did not apply to him. Now he understands why humans need such a concise unit of measure for the fourth dimension: it’s only natural for the mind to measure that which is not infinite.

Voice breaking, Cas replies, "All right," then clears his throat.

***

Dean and Cas drive all day in silence, listening to the same casette tapes Cas has heard hundreds of times already, and Dean thousands. They stop twice for pit stops and fast food, but other than that, the road is empty.

Cas finds himself philosophizing mostly on the existence of reality in relation to individual perception, while intermittently imagining Dean in various explicit positions, doing things Cas is sure Dean would never do.

 _Would reality exist if nothing could observe it?_ Then he imagines Dean forcefully pressing Cas' face into a pillow while pounding into him from behind. _Who would I be without my environment to define me?_ Hog tied, gagged, spanked until his ass is raw. _In what way does language limit the capacity of the mind?_

It is a very intense drive for Cas, but he nevertheless enjoys Dean banging on the steering wheel, singing loud and off-key to the dozen or so albums he knows by heart. Cas wishes to one day know them all by heart, too.

***

It’s late when they make it back to the bunker. They’ve barely exchanged a dozen words in the same number of hours. They are less in each other’s company, and more occupying the same space on different planes of reality.

Cas finds that this makes him lonely. He wants to open up to Dean and ask all the philosophical questions that cross his mind. He wants to learn Dean’s perspective of Life, the Universe, and Everything. He wants to share the primal thoughts and images he thinks, and he wants Dean to share them back.

If he has those thoughts at all, Cas thinks. He seems to have that aspect of his identity much more under control than Cas does.

 _Heterosexual._ Cas really hates that word, and all the connotations that go along with it.

Cas is in his favorite reading chair, having cracked open Jean-Paul Sartre’s “No Exit,” when Dean stands in front of him and says stiffly, “I’m going to bed. Gonna wake up early tomorrow and find a hunt.”

Castiel, driven by the existential philosophies inherent in the play, looks up and makes the mistake of asking what he’s thinking. “Why?”

Dean scoffs. “Because there’s supernatural evil stuff in the world and somebody’s gotta get rid of it.”

“But why us?” Cas urges on.

Rolling his eyes, Dean asks, “Who else is going to do it?”

Castiel pauses, thinks a moment, and replies, “Maybe it doesn’t need doing.”

Clenching his jaw and looking angrier by the second, Dean deadpans back, “Why doesn’t it need doing.”

Cas shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s no difference in the grand scheme of things who we save or not. Maybe some of the ‘evil’ things we kill aren’t ‘evil’ so much as trying to get by like everyone else. Life is suffering. Both pain and death are inevitable, as well as love and happiness. Maybe we should just let it be.”

Dean’s face turns from patient to infuriated at astonishing speed. “Okay, John Lennon. Maybe I would agree with that if _someone_ hadn’t fucked up and locked all the angels out of heaven so they’re on earth destroying shit because they don’t know what else to do with themselves.”

Castiel decides Dean's reaction is needlessly harsh, and that he can play this game too. “And maybe all the demons would have been banished from the earth if _someone_ hadn’t chosen to save the life of his own suicidally-depressed, hero-complex brother because he can’t let go of anything; he holds on to everything from his decades old, warped cassette tapes to his father’s outdated notions of what it is to be a man.”

Castiel has never seen the expression that falls over Dean's face. He looks… hurt. Heartbroken, even. Cas immediately regrets what he said and tries to backtrack. “Dean, I—”

Dean quickly replaces his vulnerability with the anger he so easily adopts as a defense. “No, you know what? I don’t even know why you’re here. You follow us around like a sad puppy who doesn’t know where else to go. I feed you, I house you, I teach you how to be a goddamn human being, and I even let you— No. I’m just… I’m done here. You lost your angel mojo and now you’re… you’re useless, Castiel. So just get out before you manage to fuck things up worse than they already are.”

Cas's throat constricts and he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s been shot point blank right in the heart. He has never felt such pain.

What hurts the most is that he cannot remember a single time, aside from when they first met, that Dean has ever called him by his full name.

They stare at each other for several moments. Cas begins, “Dean…”

Filled with fury, Dean replies through gritted teeth, “Get. Out,” and points to the door.

Cas pleads, frantic, “Dean, please. Let’s talk through this. You can’t mean that. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry. Just, please, Dean, let’s—”

Dean turns his back and marches away, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Cas, amazed that everything could fall apart in a matter of moments, has no choice but to leave.

He has no idea where to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing I know about the SPN fandom, it's that we love emotional turmoil (how else could Twist and Shout be so popular?). I know you probably hate me right now, but I pinky swear you won't when you read the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cas realizes he’s on a bed, which is good. But he doesn’t know where he is or how he got there, which is bad."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Castiel learns about the fluidity of gender and meets his guardian drag queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be half of one chapter, but it went a little long so I had to break it up into two. Surely you won't mind an entire chapter of party!Cas?

Castiel finds himself walking along an empty street in a bad part of town, replaying the conversation he had with Dean over and over again in his mind. He wishes he had kept his mouth shut, let his merciless curiosity lie dormant.

Now he’s lost everything. Again.

In the distance, he can hear a rhythmic thumping noise. The bass shakes the ground underneath him, and he follows it.

The noise brings him directly in front of a club that has a huge neon green gem flashing above it. The large sign underneath reads, _“The Emerald.”_

Cas walks in. The bar is obnoxiously loud, and like none he’s ever seen. There are flashing neon lights everywhere, and the floor is covered in fog. There are laser beams shooting from one wall to the next to the beat of the music.

This is definitely not one of the sad neighborhood bars that Dean and Sam normally go to.

Despite the volume and lights, there are very few people there. In the middle of the area stands a bar with three bartenders mixing drinks for the few patrons wandering around. There’s a stage to his right with no one on it, and the floor in front of it has a few dozen sets of tables and chairs. Around the perimeter are couches hidden in shadows.

Castiel sits at the bar and orders a beer. The bartender laughs at him. He’s a small, young man— no, Castiel realizes, she’s a woman. Who looks like a man. Maybe. “We don’t have beer!” he or she tells him.

“Well then what do you have?” he shouts over the music.

“What do you want?” he or she shouts back.

Cas shrugs, helpless. He's not sure what his options are.

He or she nods, and holds up a finger, then spends the next minute mixing together a drink, and gingerly pouring it into a martini glass. The liquid is dark pink.

He or she slides it over to Cas and holds up four fingers.

When Castiel passes over a five dollar bill, he asks, “I apologize if this is impolite, but are you a man or a woman?” He worries that might have been a tactless approach, but he thinks it's better to get clarification than make potentially incorrect assumptions.

He or she laughs, and asks, “What’s the difference?”

Cas ponders that one for a moment and replies, “Pronouns.”

“I was born a female but I’m a man. So use ‘him.’ You can call me Brett.” he replies with a smile.

Cas nods and smiles back, giving a thumbs up. He takes a sip of his drink while Brett waits on other customers.

The pink liquid is _delicious_. Why didn’t Dean tell him that delicious alcoholic beverages existed? This whole time he’s been drinking things that taste like either fire or urine (or both), but he could have been having sweet, fruity concoctions?

He downs the rest of it in two gulps and pushes it forward. Brett comes back a moment later and asks, “You want another?”

“Yes,” Cas replies. “What is it?”

Brett laughs again. “Are you new or something? It’s a cosmopolitan!”

Cas couldn’t hear him. “A what?”

He holds up a finger again, gets a clean cocktail napkin, and writes in big letters, _“COSMOPOLITAN.”_

Nodding, Castiel takes the napkin. He wants to show Dean to make sure he knows such things exist.

If he ever sees Dean again, he thinks sadly.

While Brett mixes another cosmopolitan, Castiel leans over the bar so he doesn’t have to shout, and asks, “Is there a name for… um, being a female man?”

“Transgender,” Brett replies without taking his attention from pouring the various liquids into the silver cup.

Castiel holds up his hands open-palmed. He still couldn’t hear. “What?”

Brett shakes up more of the pink beverage and pours it into another martini glass, then takes back the cocktail napkin that says “ _COSMOPOLITAN,”_ and underneath writes, _“TRANSGENDER.”_

Cas nods as though he understands, takes back the napkin, and puts it in his breast pocket. Taking a gulp of his drink, he asks, “Are there more people here somewhere?”

Instead of answering, Brett both looks and points up. When Cas looks up and sees only a black ceiling, Brett points to the other side of the large room, which has a big black spiral staircase leading to a second floor. Castiel nods and says, “Ohh.”

He considers the word _transgender_ as he finishes his drink. The “gender” part he knows. At least he thinks he knows. Man, woman. Which, he now realizes, is different from male, female. ‘Trans,’ though, could mean either across or beyond. _Transgender_ , he thinks. Across gender: males who are women and females who are men. Beyond gender: people who do not define themselves by the concepts of _man_ and _woman_.

Castiel likes that idea. Beyond gender. Maybe that makes him transgender too.

Perhaps sexual orientation isn’t as simplistic as he originally thought. Maybe there’s a chance Dean doesn’t define himself as a heterosexual male man. Maybe Dean is beyond gender too.

The thought gives Cas a small ray of hope.

He finishes his drink and puts another five dollar bill on the bar, waving to Brett as he heads to the opposite end of the building. As always, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he climbs the staircase.

When he reaches the top, he finds a darkened hallway with glowing pink and green paint on the walls. At the end of the hallway are two big, black double doors that Cas stares at.

From personal experience, Cas knows that nothing good ever lies beyond big black double doors in a darkened hallway, yet he approaches and opens them anyway.

He is not prepared for what’s inside.

The music— [a throbbing furious beat that sounds more like rhythmic hospital equipment than music](http://youtu.be/2HQaBWziYvY)— is so loud, he can feel it in his chest. There are flashing lights and lasers and glowing colored sticks held by the hundreds of people dancing in the center of the room. Despite all the lights, the room is pitch black and Cas can’t make out the face of a single person if he tried.

He turns around and walks back out the big black doors, confirming that nothing good ever lies beyond them.

Down the hallway he finds what he thinks is a men’s restroom, and walks in to splash water on his face.

It's been a _long_ day.

Cas is drying off his hands when a woman walks out of the stall.

...He thinks. Again, he can’t tell, but he immediately apologizes anyway, “Oh, I’m sorry, I must have walked in the wrong—”

The woman, who is taller than Cas, and broader of the shoulder than Cas, and, apparently, has a deeper laugh than Cas, chuckles. “Oh, hun, there is no _‘wrong’_ here.”

The only reason Cas thinks she's a woman is because she's wearing a very bright, sparkly red dress, and has matching sparkly red fingernails and eyelids. And hair. And her eyelashes are made of black feathers.

He watches as she washes her hands, and asks, “I apologize if this is impolite, but are you… transgender?”

She throws her head back and laughs. They look at each other in the mirror and her smile drops when she sees Cas isn’t making a joke. “Oh, sweetie, no. Under this dress, I am _all_ man.”

Castiel furrows his brow in confusion.

“...By day,” she concludes. “But by night, I’m Ruby Red, queen of this castle, The Emerald.” She gestures grandiosely around them.

“Oh,” is all Cas can think of to say.

Ruby Red smiles. “Hun, you look like you could use some _fun_. Would you like to join me as my Special Guest this evening and have some fun?”

Castiel nods.

***

An hour later, Castiel is amongst several dozen people crowding around the bar. Brett mixes drink after drink that he pours into row after row of shot glasses. All of them Cas tries taste like a mix between the delicious cosmopolitan he had earlier and the firelike whiskey Dean prefers.

Cas loses track of both how many shots he’s taken and himself in general.

Which is why he has no idea how he got to be on stage. Bright lights shine in his eyes. The music is gone and everyone is quiet. He’s sitting in a big chair in the middle of the platform, and suddenly remembers something about the phrase, _“Special Guest.”_

Ruby Red gracefully struts on stage, and stops in the middle in front of Cas. She faces the audience, and raises her hands in the air with a flourish.

The crowd goes wild. “Are you ready for the main attraction of the evening?”

The crowd gets louder. “I can’t hear you!”

The crowd becomes deafening. “Let’s hear it for Innocent Castiel and The Jade Tricks!”

Everyone cheers. Castiel is drunk and confused.

Five men march on stage wearing white tuxedos while an electronic guitar riff starts loudly on the speakers. The men circle around Cas and start dancing in synchronicity.

[ _Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man._ ](http://youtu.be/eQipmiOOUcg)

The music slows momentarily, and as soon as the beat starts again, the men rip off their tuxedos, leaving nothing but their bowties and carefully situated black thongs.

So this is what Ruby Red meant by _fun_ , Castiel thinks.

He also thinks that he’s rather enjoying himself.

The song ends, and four of the men leave the stage, leaving one man dancing around Cas. A slower beat starts, and the man starts gyrating his hips to it.

[ _I’m comin’ over, see me down at the station by the lane with my hands in my pocket..._ ](http://youtu.be/PewCPd7U8Bc)

Cas can’t take his eyes off of him. He’s tan and muscled and moves his body like it’s water. Going to the front of the stage, he jumps off of it and dances in front of people, thrusting his hips at them to the beat of the music. They put bills in his thong and cheer. After he makes a round, he climbs back up on stage and immediately crawls on top of Castiel.

He can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the stage itself, but suddenly he’s spinning around. Based on the positioning of the lights, he would venture to conclude that the stage is spinning. He hopes.

Castiel doesn’t really care though, because there's a set of well-oiled abdominal muscles mere inches from his face.

The man grinds on top of him without touching him, moving his body to the music in a way that utterly mesmerizes Cas.

Castiel can’t really remember much after that.

***

His cell phone wakes him up the next morning. It’s vibrating under a pillow under his face. He grabs it and presses a button, opening one eye.

Shooting pain makes him squeeze his eyes shut again. His brain feels like it’s being stabbed by a hundred knives. His body aches all over, and his mouth tastes like it's been stuffed with cotton balls. There’s drool caked to his face, and something else too.

He reaches up a hand to wipe it off, and looks through slitted eyes at what it is.

Red glitter.

He reaches down to wipe it off on his—

He’s not wearing a shirt. He looks down.

He _is_ wearing boxers. Well at least there’s that.

Wiping the glitter off on his boxers, he tries to look at his phone again. The light emitting from it is blinding, but he can make out the words, _“Where are you?”_

Dean.

Everything comes flooding back to him at once. The fight. The cruel words that were exchanged. The Emerald. Brett. Cosmopolitans. Ruby Red. The minimally clothed man dancing on top of him.

A lot of alcohol.

Cas realizes he’s on a bed, which is good. But he doesn’t know where he is or how he got there, which is bad.

He rolls over to see the muscular back of a dark-skinned man.

He sits up. The hundred knives turn into a thousand knives. He groans.

The man next to him rolls over and mumbles, “Morning, hun.”

Castiel lacks the proper mental faculties to attempt to navigate this situation with any amount of tact. He mumbles, “I don’t know who you are or where I am or how I got here,” and adds, “and my… everything hurts.”

The man chuckles and smiles up at him. He has dimples and sharp cheekbones, a shaved head and a little stubble.

Cas cannot for the life of him remember this man.

He rolls over on his side and props himself up on his elbow, extending his other hand out to shake. “I’m Alex. But you might remember me better as Ruby Red.”

Castiel shakes it, and Alex adds, “You’re in my other castle, wherein I am king, and you got here because you told me you had nowhere else to go. Then you walked in here, undressed yourself, and fell asleep on my bed. Don’t worry, I was a gentleman.”

Cas pauses. “How did I get glitter on my face?”

“How does glitter get any of the places it’s not supposed to be?” Alex asks. “It’s just the magic of glitter.”

Cas nods. He’s all out of questions.

“C’mon, dear. I’ll show you where the bathroom is and you can get cleaned up while I make you some breakfast.”

***

Castiel feels ten times better after a shower and a few bites of food. He’s shoveling eggs in his mouth while Alex eyes him and drinks his coffee.

“So what’s going on with you, babe?” he asks, setting down his coffee. “You look like a tax accountant from 1950 who just lost a year’s salary at the race tracks.”

Cas swallows and shrugs. “My… friend kicked me out.”

“Why?”

He looks down at his food and shuffles it around the plate. “I kind of told him it’s his fault there’s evil in the world and that he holds on to outdated notions of what it is to be a man.”

“Hmm," Alex replies. "So you got a thing for him?”

Cas nods.

“And he’s straight?”

Cas nods again.

“But the way he looks at you and treats you tells your heart otherwise?”

Cas nods and says, “Exactly.”

“Oh sugar, we’ve all been there.”

He looks up. “Really?”

“Mmhm. Hun, the way I see it is you got two options: keep him or leave him. And if you decide to keep him, you gotta make sure you really want him, and more importantly, you gotta make him want you. His love for you has gotta outweigh his fear of the gay.” He lifts his hands and shakes them scandalously.

Cas considers that. They talk for an hour before Alex gets ready for what he referred to as his “day job.”

Castiel replies to Dean's text. _“I’m at a friend’s.”_

Dean replies immediately:

_D: What friend?_

_C: A new one._

_D: Name?_

_C: Alex._

_D: Where did you meet?_

_C: A club._

_D: Which club?_

_C: The Emerald._

Cas stares at his phone intently. Dean’s reply is not immediate.

_D: You went to a strip club?! A gay strip club??_

_C: Is that what it was?_

_D: What, did you not know?_

_C: Not at the time, though in retrospect it makes sense._

_D: How so??_

_C: The men stripping, I guess._

_D: Jfc, Cas._

_C: What?_

_D: What is Alex? Lady or dude?_

_C: I’m not really sure._

_D: What does that even mean??_

_C: I met him as a man dressed as a woman but this morning he was just a man dressed... well, he wasn't dressed._

_D: This morning he was just an undressed man… in bed with you?_

Castiel huffs in irritation before replying:

_C: I don’t really see how that’s any of your business._

_D: Fine. Last question, did you get a lap dance from a stripper?_

Well, that's an odd question, Cas thinks.

_C: I think so? I was on stage and mostly naked men were dancing around me and one was on top of me at one point. If I remember correctly, which I might not. I don’t know if that counts as a “lap dance.”_

Dean doesn’t reply to this.

Alex comes back into the kitchen in a navy blue uniform with a heavy-looking utility belt around his hips, a walkie-talkie velcroed to his shoulder, and big shiny badge on his breast pocket. He pours himself another cup of coffee.

“You’re a police officer?” Castiel asks.

He takes a sip from his mug, then replies, “One of the finest,” and winks.

Cas gets another text, and looks down at his phone.

_D: Will you please come home now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited for the next chapter. Needless to say, the research alone has been a blast.
> 
> And oh hey, if you like the fic so far, can you leave me a kudos or a comment? They make my day!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do trust you, Dean. With much more than my body."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein the physical walls that separate Dean and Cas are not an obstacle; and Cas finally learns Dean's big secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I title this chapter, "Holy Fuck Meta," because I'm calling the writers of the show out on something. Here's some stuff you should know about it:
> 
> Dean and Sam are based off of the two main characters from Kerouac's On the Road (my favorite book of all time), Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise. It's my headcanon that Cas is the third main character, Carlo Marx. The characters are all based off of real people: Neal Cassady, Jack Kerouac, and Allen Ginsberg, respectively. 
> 
> What Cas tells Dean in this chapter is absolutely true. Implications in the end notes.

After Cas leaves, Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s furious, and frustrated, and god he just… _hurts_. He feels like someone took his heart right out of his chest and threw it across the room.

_Outdated notions of what it is to be a man._

Playing those words over and over in his head, that’s what really gets to him. He isn’t even sure what it _means_.

Dean barely sleeps that night.

In the morning, he wakes up feeling worse than he used to feel on his worst hangover days. Instead of a pounding head and an aching body, he's left with pounding guilt and an aching heart. He shouldn’t have called Cas a sad puppy. He shouldn’t have called him useless. That was cruel and petty of him, fighting like his father but with fewer fists involved.

Dean gets up and decides clean the bunker. Starting with the kitchen, he scrubs and tidies and reorganizes. He opens doors of rooms he’s never been in and dusts them. He moves the furniture in his bedroom. He cleans Sammy’s room, and when he makes his way to Castiel’s, he finally stops.

Staring at Cas’ perfectly made bed and his pointed lack of presence there, he lies down on it. Cas’ pillow smells like him even though he hasn’t slept in it in weeks: plain soap and a touch of sunlight leftover from his grace. And something else. That indescribable something that just makes people smell like themselves. There are no words for it, and it’s such a small thing, but it’s so powerful.

Before he talks himself out of it, he takes his cell phone out of his pocket and texts, _“Where are you?”_

Cas doesn’t reply. He always replies within moments. Dean wonders if he’s okay, and how long he should wait before really worrying.

He dozes off staring at the screen, and wakes up when it beeps at him an hour later.

***

Dean has lost his remorse and is back to being furious. A gay strip club? Waking up in bed with a goddamn drag queen? A lap dance on stage? What, does Cas live in some kind of Bravo reality show now?

He tries to get a rope around his anger. Or whatever this feeling is.

_Jealousy._

“Nope,” he corrects himself out loud with the shake of his head, walking into the library and sitting in front of his computer. “Just anger.”

Before introspecting too much, Dean pushes all of his feelings away and shoves his laptop open.

He needs to find a phone number.

Dean starts typing _“sa”_ in Google, when it suggests searching for _“s and m,”_ because apparently that’s what he had recently searched.

Apparently also, Cas doesn’t know how to clear his browser history.

Dean opens this history and scrolls through the lengthy list of links, all relating somehow to sex. There are dozens of Wikipedia articles ranging from “testosterone” to _“Bambi Woods,”_ hundreds of pages viewed on various sex forums, Craigslist ads, sex toy stores. The list seems endless.

Goddamn kinky bastard.

But, Dean notes, no porn. No vids, no pics, no clips, no downloads, no lit. Just a whole bunch of learning about the stuff that makes porn exist at all.

Dean closes out the history window and goes back to his search. He finds the phone number he’s looking for, but before he calls it, he texts Cas:

_D: Will you please come home now?_

***

Cas comes down the stairs of the bunker and enters the sitting room. He still feels like he got hit by a bus, but at least now he feels like a survivor of getting hit by a bus, whereas before, he felt like he was permanently in the process of being hit by a bus.

He looks at Dean, sitting in the same spot Cas was sitting in last night when they fought. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean looks up from his book, unsmiling. “Hey, Cas.”

They stare at each other in silence, both like deer in headlights, worried that if they move even a little bit, the other will scurry away and they’ll be right back where they started.

Dean clears his throat. “Look, Cas…”

Cas interrupts him and holds up a hand. “No, Dean. I’m just… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Dean looks down at his book, closing it and keeping his finger in between the pages he’s on. “It’s okay, man. I’m sorry too.” He looks back up at Cas, then down his body and back up again. “What’s with all the glitter?”

Cas looks down at his trench coat. There are sparkles stuck in the fibers all over it. “Casualties, I’m afraid. An inevitability of befriending a drag queen.”

Dean nods as though he understands. “How’d you get back home?”

“I was escorted by the police.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Whoa, what the hell did you get into last—”

Castiel smirks a sheepish half-grin and continues, “Ruby Red the strip club manager by night. Alex the cop by day. Or so he says.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean replies, “That sounds kind of awesome, actually.”

Cas shuffles his feet. His back hurts, and he wants to lay down—

He notices the book Dean is reading. _On the Road_ by Jack Kerouac. “Have you read that before?” he asks, pointing to the tattered paperback.

Dean opens the book again. “Yeah. I mean, Kerouac’s no Vonnegut, you know? But, as they say, I dig it.”

“Does Dean Moriarty remind you of anyone?” Cas asks, smirking again.

He huffs a laugh in response. “If you’re implying what I think you are, no, Dean Moriarty is no Dean Winchester. I’m not that much of an asshole.”

Cas furrows his brow.

“Yeah, well, does Carlo Marx remind _you_ of anyone?” Dean asks.

Cas eyes Dean seriously. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Cassady and Ginsberg had a long-standing love affair during the events that transpired in that book. You can’t see that though, unless you’re looking close enough.” Nodding toward the book, he concludes, “Even Kerouac hid the truth from his audience.” He turns and walks away, but before exiting the room, he stops, looks back toward Dean, and asks, “What audience are you hiding from?”

***

The next few days pass slowly. Cas is thankful that the bunker is so large and it’s easy to stay out of each other’s space. There’s no longer bad blood, but every time Cas looks at Dean, his cheeks flush and he can’t for the life of him keep himself from getting hard. When this happens, Cas mutters something about forgetting something in his bedroom and scuttles away. They interact sparingly, only passing each other to go to the bathroom or use the kitchen.

On Thursday morning, Cas pads into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. He hesitates at the doorway, looking toward Dean who is facing the stove, frying bacon, wearing only a pair of white briefs and an apron. He’s whistling the melody of CCR’s “Proud Mary,” and doesn’t appear to notice Cas staring intently at the way the corded his muscles in his back move while he flips bacon, or the way his ass sways along with the hips that easily guide him around as he dances to the music he’s making.

How anyone could deny this man the entire world is beyond him. If Cas thought such an act would be welcome, he would walk up behind Dean, wrap his arms around his waist and sway with him until Dean would get irritated that there is bacon to be eaten and he is not eating it. And Cas would breathe in the scent of him and kiss his neck and…

_Oh damn._

Cas sneaks away to his bedroom until his hard-on goes away.

***

Castiel reenters the kitchen, having donned pants instead of risking being around Dean in only his boxers and undershirt. He’s wearing an old pair of jeans Dean gave him when he explained that clothes, when worn by humans, get dirty and need to be washed.

Dean has his laptop open next to his plate of bacon and eggs and toast. Across the table is another plate of the same. Cas pours a cup of coffee and sits down in front of the food, directly across from Dean, who is still staring intently at his laptop. “I take it this is for me?” Cas asks.

Dean mumbles distractedly, “No one else here.”

Castiel digs in. Of Dean’s many talents, cooking is near the top of the list, particularly in regard to breakfast foods and pastries. Today Dean has baked chunks of red potatoes with herbs and onions, made omelettes full of tomatoes and feta and spinach, and fried thick slices of bacon so perfectly, in the way Cas loves and many diners can never replicate. There’s even a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“This is very good,” Cas tells him with half a mouthful of food.

Dean’s eyebrows are furrowed as his eyes scroll sideways back and forth across the screen. He replies with a noncommittal, “Uh huh.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh huh.”

Cas eats the rest of the meal in silence, habitually staring at Dean’s bright green eyes as they study whatever he’s looking at, his lips and teeth as they wrap around forkfuls of food, the early morning stubble on his cheeks, his smooth collarbone and the tensed trapezius muscles above them, the way his nimble fingers dance across the keyboard periodically…

_Oh damn._

At least Cas is covered by the table this time.

He finishes his food and waits patiently, trying to think of things that don’t make him think of his lips on Dean’s body. He looks up at the ceiling for inspiration, trying vainly to count the tiles.

Dean asks, “You okay?”

Castiel does not look at him when he replies, “Yes.”

He hears Dean close his laptop and clear his throat. “So. I got some good news.”

Still avoiding his eye, Cas asks, “Yes?”

Dean stands up from the table and walks into Cas’ visual field, standing on his tip toes and looming over his face. “What’s up with you, man?”

Cas looks quickly down to the ground, trying to count the floor tiles instead.

Dean squats down to get back in his sights, and grins. “You spend breakfast staring at me, and now that I’m paying attention to you, you can’t look at me.”

Castiel narrows his eyes and looks at Dean, trying not to focus on the cute lines of his stomach, or the way his quadriceps flex, or how his hands are dangling between his legs, or how there’s a bulge in his briefs…

He takes a deep breath, and tries to will his face to a cooler temperature.

Dean is still grinning at him. Standing up, he chuckles, though now it’s worse because his proximity to Cas combined with his lack of clothing are driving Castiel crazy. Cas forces out, “What’s the good news?”

“Found a hunt. I mean, if you’re up for it. I could use a wingman.”

Cas looks up at him in surprise. The memory of being called useless still stings. “Really?”

Dean sits back down across from him and scratches the back of his neck. Cas can’t help but dart his eyes to Dean’s bicep, which flexes as he does this. “Yeah. Sam tracked that vampire den to New Mexico and now he says there’s a branch holed up in Dallas. Was gonna head out tomorrow morning.”

Cas nods. “I’d like that.”

Dean grins at him again. “Cool.”

***

That night, Castiel packs his few meager belongings— two sets of clothes, his moleskin journal (a Christmas gift from Sam and Dean), the local library’s copy of “The Sunset Limited” by Cormac McCarthy, a toothbrush, and a large black feather (his) that he likes to take with him on trips for luck— into a tattered old backpack of Sam's which he used to carry his textbooks when he went to Stanford.

He stares at his feather, remembering the feel of stretching his massive black wings out behind him. Logically, he understands that luck isn’t real, and if it were, a feather from his wings certainly wouldn’t provide him with it. But he keeps it anyway, if for no other reason than it reminds him of where he came from, and how much he’s grown since becoming human. Life wasn’t easier or harder as an angel, just different.

He finds he doesn’t miss it.

Undressing, he turns off the light and lies down in bed. He closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind, but instead, he begins recounting images of sexual positions involving bondage. Different preferences he’s learned that people have in regards to the large paradigm of kink. What Dean’s preferences might be. What Dean’s safeword would be. If Dean already has a safeword and at what point in his life he picked it, what situations he may have been in that he needed it for. What Dean would look like above Cas, taking him while pinning him down, Cas helpless against his restraints…

His thoughts are interrupted by his phone vibrating on the bedside table. Picking it up, he sees that it’s a text from Dean that reads, _“Hey Cas?”_

Cas replies:

_C: Yes Dean?_

_D: Whatcha doing?_

_C: Lying in bed. Thinking. You?_

_D: I can’t sleep._

_C: Oh._

Castiel has no idea how to handle these situations, textual conversations. He hasn't even mastered verbal ones.

He can’t tell if Dean is implying something, or if he should attempt to continue the conversation, or assist Dean in some way with falling asleep. Dean texts back:

_D: Whatcha thinkin bout?_

_C: Would you like me to be honest?_

_D: Yes_

Cas hesitates for a moment before replying:

_C: BDSM_

A few minutes pass before he receives the next text, and he briefly worries that he shouldn’t have been honest.

_D: What about it?_

_C: What draws people so many people to it. Why it’s so taboo yet is deeply ingrained in the history of virtually all cultures._

_D: What draws you to it?_

_C: I’m not sure. I think I like the idea of being controlled… putting your trust in someone, giving your body to them to do what they please, for your pleasure or theirs or both._

_D: Would you trust me?_

What an absurd question, Cas thinks.

_C: I do trust you Dean. With much more than my body._

_D: If you gave me your body, what would you want me to do to it?_

Cas sits up in bed. He knows what this is. He read it somewhere… there’s a word for it, he recalls. _Sexting_. Dean is sexting with him. He thinks.

He worries he’s in too far over his head. Looking back down at his phone, he goes to write back, but his finger slips and he gets to his contacts folder.

He used to only have two contacts in his phone: Dean and Sam. Now he sees three: Dean, Sam, and Your Red-Sequined Goddess.

Cas, ignoring the fact that he can’t remember having ever given Alex his phone, pulls up a message and types:

_C: Alex. This is Innocent Castiel, minus The Jade Tricks (unfortunately). Friend is trying to “sext” with me. How to respond?_

The reply is almost immediate:

_A: Own it, sugar. <3_

Castiel ponders for several seconds how possessing something is of less value than three. Then he tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes, and sees a heart. “Ohh,” he says aloud.

_C: What does “owning it” mean?_

_A: It means go big or go home._

_C: I am home._

_A: Then you gotta go big, babe. ;)_

Cas finally understands.

_C: Thank you Alex. I hope you have a lovely evening._

_A: Any time, doll. And don’t forget to give me all the JUICY details after you’ve recovered. ;) ;) ;)_

Cas smiles, and switches back to Dean:

_C: Dean?_

_D: Yea?_

He thinks a moment. Of the hundreds of fantasies he’s had about Dean, he has to narrow it down to one.

_C: I would want you to convince me that I’m yours._

_D: Tell me how._

Cas hesitates.

_C: Kiss every inch of me. Take me apart and put me back together. Let me please you. What would you like to do to me?_

_D: Putting my lips on every inch of your body is a good start. Then I’d like to hold you down. Grind my hips against yours. Make you beg for release but not let you._

Cas’ jaw drops. He is achingly hard, and lays back down to type:

_C: I’d writhe underneath you, pushing against you, making obscene noises._

_D: I want to spread you open with my fingers while sucking you off._

_C: And I’d push myself deeper onto them and deeper into you, begging you to please please fuck me._

_D: I would, because you’re a filthy slut. You’re *my* filthy slut._

_C: I’m your filthy slut. My body is made only to please you._

_D: Goddamn Cas. I wanna fuck you so bad._

_C: Then get in here and fuck me._

Cas waits, a small thrill that Dean might barge into his room at any moment, overcome with desire, and do all the things they just talked about.

_D: I can’t._

He tries not to be disappointed.

_C: Why not?_

_D: You said you trust me. Just trust me about this. Please._

_C: As you wish. Dean?_

_D: Yea Cas?_

_C: May I get off now?_

_D: You may._

***

The next morning is as awkward as Cas predicts, both of them blushing when they run into each other switching places in the bathroom. They spend the rest of the morning acting like they’ve never sexted before in their lives, and certainly not with each other.

They hit the road by mid-morning. The drive is mostly silent until they stop for burgers, and Cas reaches in his pocket for his wallet. He feels a flimsy papery wad, and pulls it out.

It’s the cocktail napkin from The Emerald that says, _“COSMOPOLITAN TRANSGENDER”_ on it.

They’re waiting in a long drive thru line. Dean sees the napkin and asks, “Cosmopolitan transgender? Is that like the name of a band or something?”

Cas huffs a laugh. “No. Did you know either of these things existed? The drink cosmopolitan and people who are transgender?”

“Well yeah.”

“I learned about both of them while I was at The Emerald. My bartender, Brett, was a transgender man who made me a cosmopolitan. It was very good. Much better than whiskey.”

Dean chuckles. “Whiskey is definitely an acquired taste. But once you acquire it, it’s hard to un-acquire it, you know?" Dean pauses. "So you like girl drinks, huh?”

Cas furrows his brow. “I don’t understand what you mean. I didn’t think drinks had assigned genders. I thought humans did, but I was apparently wrong in that.”

“I’m just saying chicks usually do the mixed drinks. Dudes usually stick with beer and liquor.”

Castiel ponders that while Dean pulls up to the window, pays for their food, and hands the bag of it to Cas, who checks to make sure all the items they ordered are there. They drive off and Cas puts his straw in his large Sprite. “You know, I think that’s bullshit.”

“What is?”

“Women usually do this. Men usually do that. People aren’t coins.” He eats a fry and hands one to Dean, who takes it directly from his hands with his teeth. It’s something they’ve done a thousand times, but Cas just now notices how intimate the act of 'eat a fry, feed Dean a fry' really is.

With a mouthful of fry, Dean replies, “I guess that’s true.” He swallows. “I just didn’t know you didn’t like whiskey is all. Now I know, and I won’t order it for you anymore.”

“And don’t call cosmopolitans a ‘girl drink’ anymore while you're at it,” Cas replies with air quotes.

Dean snorts. “Why not?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Because, Dean, the random feminization of objects in order to portray how they are of lesser value than things that don’t require a feminine preface does a disservice to both women and the men who enjoy those objects too, effectively insulting a vast majority of the human population with a single word.”

Dean blinks at the road. “Man, I don’t know a lot of those words you just said, but if it’s that damn important to you, I won’t call cocktails girl drinks anymore. You just gotta ask, you don’t have to attack my worldview.”

Cas begrudgingly feeds Dean another fry, unwraps and rewraps Dean’s double bacon cheeseburger in such a way so that he can eat it and drive at the same time without getting his hands dirty, and hands it to him.

Dean takes a bite of it, and Cas asks, “Dean, may I ask you a personal question?”

“Shoot,” Dean says, and takes another bite.

“What’s your safeword?”

Dean chokes on his food.

He sputters and swallows, saying, “Jesus, Cas, give a guy some warning.”

“I did,” Cas replies. “I just asked you if I could ask you a personal question.”

“Yeah well, with shit like that, you need to write it in the damn sky or something.”

Cas waits patiently. Dean stays silent.

“So?” Cas asks.

Dean hesitates, then mutters, “Nickelback.”

“Nickelback,” Cas repeats back. He was expecting pineapple, or banana, or cinnamon.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because when I listen to them, I think, ‘No. Stop it.’”

“All right,” Cas replies. “That works for me too then.”

Dean nods. They drive the rest of the way in silence.

***

When they hit Dallas a few hours later, it’s late afternoon. They check into a motel room. Dean tosses his duffel bag on the bed and turns to Cas.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen,” he begins. His eyes look wild and he’s shaking. Cas has rarely seen him so nervous. “I’m gonna head out soon and scout this place out. At 8:45, I want you to walk out this door and turn left, and it’s a block away. You can’t miss it. Big square building. Nothing around it but a parking lot. At the front doors, you’re gonna see a big black dude named Shawn. Ignore everything else. Approach that big black dude and tell him you’re Castiel. Do what he says. Think you can do all that?”

Cas tilts his head and asks, “Dean, is everything okay?”

He grins. “Everything’s gonna be great.”

They stare at each other for several moments before Dean claps Cas on the shoulder and says, “See you in a bit.”

***

At 8:45, Castiel exits the motel room and turns left. Just as Dean instructed, the big square building is only a short block away. As Cas approaches it, he feels the ground vibrate under his feet as though loud music is playing nearby.

Cas reaches the building and stares up at it. There’s a big neon lasso above it that reads, “The Saloon.” Walking along the side of the building, he sees an enormous sign plastered on half the massive wall of the building. It’s a picture of a man’s bare torso, wearing only jeans and a big belt buckle. His face is hidden under a cowboy hat. The sign reads, _“THE COWBOY IS BACK,”_ in big block letters.

He turns a corner and reaches the front doors.

There's a line of about a hundred people stretching around the building. Cas, per Dean’s instructions, ignores them, and approaches a large man on a stool with a wire curling around his left ear and clutching a clipboard.

“Are you… Shawn?” Castiel asks tentatively.

He looks up from his clipboard with disinterest. “Yeah?”

“Hello… I’m, uh, I’m Castiel.”

His eyes go wide and he jumps off his stool, extending his hand to Cas to shake. “Of course. Good evening, Mr. Winchester. Right this way.”

Cas follows the man into the building and through a dark hallway, mildly confused at being referred to as Mr. Winchester. There are smaller versions of the Cowboy poster hanging one after the other on the walls.

They reach a set of double doors. The music Cas had been hearing gets louder, exponentially so when Shawn opens the door for Cas.

The room they enter is enormous. It’s like a combination amphitheater and club. There’s a large stage with dozens of sets of tables and chairs. The entire back wall of the room is one big bar, and above it are two floors worth of standing area.

The place is dark, packed with people standing around, drinking, and talking. The music is loud. The bar is full. There are flashing lights and lasers everywhere, like at The Emerald.

Cas doesn’t know what this place has anything to do with a vampire den.

Shawn whispers something to a woman behind the bar, who nods and approaches Castiel. “Good evening, Mr. Winchester,” she says with a smile.

“Hello,” Cas replies.

“If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to your table.”

Cas blinks, and replies with a wary, “All right.”

She leads Cas down a few steps and onto the main floor. Gesturing to a table directly in front of the stage with a little placard that says “Reserved,” she says, “Please have a seat.”

Immediately, a shirtless man approaches the table carrying a tray with a dark pink drink on it. He sets it down in front of Castiel and adds, “Compliments of The Cowboy.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, confused. His phone buzzes. He pulls it out and reads a text from Dean that says, simply, _“Stay put.”_

Cas can do that. He takes a sip of his drink. It’s just as delicious as he remembers it.

The lights, what little there were, go off. The music stops. Everyone quiets.

An announcer begins, “Tonight’s the night you’ve all been waiting for. He’s been out wrangling horses and breaking hearts for the past eight years, but he’s back tonight to see us for one night only. Please put your hands together for THE one, THE only, THE Cowboy of Dallas, Texas!”

The crowd is deafening.

The curtains rise, and Castiel can see the silhouette of a bow-legged man saunter on stage between two poles. He reaches the front, and the spotlight flips on, revealing a muscular man with a black cowboy hat concealing his face, a black button down shirt, black pants, and black cowboy boots.

The music begins.

[ _I wanna do bad things with you…_ ](http://youtu.be/Zuql9-EsmAY)

The man lifts up his cowboy hat as the beat starts, and looks around at the audience.

Castiel blinks. He does not often have trouble believing that which he can see in front of him. He is not usually skeptical in matters of reality. He is not that kind of existentialist.

However, Castiel is having a _very_ hard time believing that the man directly in front of him on stage, grinning seductively at several hundred strangers who are screaming back at him to take off his clothes, is, in fact, Dean Winchester.

And he has an even harder time believing it when this same man finds Cas, makes eye contact, and winks at him, before clapping his hands once, running down stage, and swinging his entire body around a pole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implications! If Dean is Moriarty and Cas is Marx, and Moriarty is Cassady and Marx is Ginsberg, and Cassady and Ginsberg were IRL a thing, what I'm saying is this:
> 
> DESTIEL IS CANON, BITCHES.
> 
> But that's not the most important part of this chapter. The most important thing is that DEAN IS A FAMOUS STRIPPER IN TEXAS WHAT?
> 
> ...I'm really tired. This was a long chapter. The next one is gonna be AWESOME. 
> 
> I need to go to bed.
> 
> Give me comments and kudos to wake up to? <3 (Tilt your head sideways.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is definitely no way in hell, or purgatory, or heaven, or reality, that Dean Winchester would be twerking.
> 
> But there he is. Mere feet in front of Cas. In Dallas, Texas. Wearing a hat, a pair of boots, and a thong. In front of hundreds of people. Twerking."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Dean. Does. Dallas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Jensen, should he ever happen to stumble upon this fic: I am sorry for everything I admittedly imply about you in this chapter. I have been fangirling over you since 2001, episode 1.16 of Dark Angel, a show which I watched religiously every Tuesday night on the 19" tv in my parents' bedroom.
> 
> Thankfully, he's never gonna read this. 
> 
> PS I'm going to classic rock hell for that first song, by the way.
> 
> Update: [Fanart](https://31.media.tumblr.com/8b32978b9edba2533293cca6011805e2/tumblr_inline_n8vbqpsV511rh2w0u.jpg) for this chapter by [drawthelinestoalltheconstellations](http://drawthelinestoallconstellations.tumblr.com/)

Castiel must have died. He must have died and gone to… this definitely isn’t heaven. He’d spent the better part of a millenia in heaven, and not once did he see Dean Winchester do what he is presently doing:

Unbuttoning his shirt while gyrating his hips to the tempo of the music, opening it and throwing it off his body with a flourish, lifting it above his head and spinning it around, and then flinging into the vast and screaming audience.

This couldn’t possibly be in purgatory either, because Cas spent a year there with Dean, and while they were there, Dean never did what he is doing now that his shirt is off:

Shoving his hand down his pants and through his fly, making pistol motions at the audience; and then as the music slows, placing his hands at his hips, pausing briefly to gaze at the audience whose collective breath is held, then, when the music suddenly picks up the beat, tears his pants completely off in one smooth motion.

It takes Castiel’s brain several seconds longer than it should to process that Dean Winchester, _his_ Dean Winchester, is now standing on stage in front of hundreds of people, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a black thong.

This couldn’t be reality either. Because Dean would never shimmy his ass in front of hundreds of people while pushing up his thong further into his ass to show somehow _even more_ skin. Dean would certainly never begin squatting down repeatedly to the music while opening and closing his legs and chest. And there is definitely no way in hell, or purgatory, or heaven, or reality, that Dean Winchester would be twerking.

But there he is. Mere feet in front of Cas. In Dallas, Texas. Wearing a hat, a pair of boots, and a thong. In front of hundreds of people. Twerking.

And, it seems, enjoying himself while doing it.

Castiel must have died and gone to hell. That’s the only explanation. And Cas is kicking himself.

Because apparently, he's been on the wrong damn side of things this whole time.

The song ends, and Dean runs backstage to get a mic.

He runs back and breathlessly addresses the audience. “Howdy, folks! Long time no see,” he says in a surprisingly accurate Southern drawl, grinning slyly and winking. He looks around. “How y’all doing tonight?”

The crowd cheers.

“Good. Good. Listen, I know I haven’t been around in a while, and for that I’m sorry,” he presses his palm to his chest while the crowd goes _awww!_ “But I’m here tonight to make it up to you. So who wants to have a good time?”

The crowd goes wild. Cas has no idea how to react, except remembering to close his jaw every time it falls back open.

The music starts back up, and Dean hands his mic to someone backstage, then starts clapping his hands above his head to the beat. The crowd follows along.

Cas recognizes the song.

[ _Some folks are born made to wave the flag, ooh! They’re red, white, and blue..._ ](http://youtu.be/JBfjU3_XOaA)

Dean shimmies downstage and hops up on a pole, doing tricks Cas didn’t think were physically possible. He hoists himself upside down, spins around, lifts his leg completely vertically on the pole and spins some more. He hops from one pole to another, constantly spinning and climbing and tumbling over and around himself. He lifts himself completely horizontally with only his arms and does sideways pull-ups on the bar. He thrusts his hips and seductively humps the pole to the rhythm of the music, squatting down and back up, down and back up.

The song ends with Dean on his knees, shimmying backward on to the ground and thrusting his hips upward. He stops when the song ends, and slowly sits back up when the next song begins.

Hyperventilating for several minutes now, Castiel has knocked back so many cosmopolitans that his server doesn’t even ask him if he wants another, he just keeps bringing them.

Cas is mesmerized as Dean saunters lithely during the intro of the song, placing one foot in front of the other for every _“ohhhhh.”_ He gets to the front of the stage and takes a gentle step directly onto Cas’ table, and then another, placing one foot on each side of him and lowering himself into Cas’ lap as the full tempo finally begins.

[ _Down in a Mexicali, there’s a crazy little place that I know..._ ](http://youtu.be/Kahp_kmOFzQ)

The spotlight is on them, and thus the eyes of many spectators.

All of Castiel’s worries that Dean is not actually an exhibitionist are suddenly dashed.

Dean grinds onto Cas to the slow beat of the music, thrusting his abs and hips into him, combing his fingers through Cas’ hair and gently pulling back on it, exposing his throat. He lowers his head close to Castiel’s ear, brushing his lips lightly against it, and with a low, dirty chuckle, says, “What was it you were saying about ‘outdated notions’?”

He pulls back and winks at Cas again before sliding off of him and making his rounds among the other patrons, all of whom shovel bills into his thong and shriek with delight as he dances from one table to the next.

Castiel’s heart is pounding in his chest. He’s shaking, and he’s a bit drunk, and he can feel where Dean ran his fingers through his hair, like there’s a burning handprint on his scalp. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. How did Dean become an apparently famous stripper? Moreover, how could Cas have been so blind to something he can now see plain as day? Dean is a performer. The way he owns the stage and enraptures the attention of everyone who looks upon him, commanding power and making his presence known…

Cas’ dick is painfully hard.

While Dean finishes his rounds, Cas takes out his phone and hurriedly types out a message to Alex.

_C: Alex. It’s Castiel again. Have heard of “The Cowboy”?_

Castiel owes Alex candy or flowers or a bulk supply of glitter or whatever drag queens like as thank you gifts, because he always seems to reply immediately when Cas needs him.

_A: Of Dallas? The famous stripper? Heard of him, honey, he is the god of every male stripper in the US._

_C: Oh. Well you know my friend? The one I’ve mentioned?_

_A: The one you’ve mentioned a few thousand times, yes._

_C: He’s him. My friend I mean. Is The Cowboy._

_A: …_

_C: What?_

_A: Pic or it didn’t happen._

Castiel waits a moment until Dean is somewhat facing him, then snaps a photo and sends it to Alex, along with one of he and Cas that Sam took several months ago. It is of the very rare occasion when they’re both laughing. Cas can’t remember at what.

_A: Oh. My. God._

_C: What do I do?_

_A: Listen carefully. You get in your car. You drive your scrawny white asses to Vegas. And you put a ring on that._

_C: That may be a plan for the future but does not help me in my present predicament._

_A: What do you want to do, sugar?_

_C: That answer is… graphic._

_A: Then put your phone away and go graph with your sex-god almost-boyfriend._

Cas puts his phone back in his pocket as Dean climbs back on stage to take his bow. His thong and the tops of his boots are filled with cash. Taking off his hat, he waves it at the audience as the curtain drops in front of him.

While the crowd screams and cheers in applause, Castiel takes a deep breath and tries to will his dick down, when his server approaches him. “Mr. Winchester? You’re requested in the VIP lounge.”

***

Dean hasn’t felt this good in years. It’s like he died and went to… well, not heaven, because he’s been there and it’s boring and full of dickbags. Not hell, because he’s been there too and it ain’t no picnic. Not purgatory, though at least Cas was there with him.

And it’s definitely not earth, because he never gets to be this happy in reality.

He’s in his old dressing room getting ready. Years ago, he used to be overbooked for the VIP lounge every night. Tonight, he’s not booking for private shows, except one.

He’ll never forget the look on Cas’ face when he tipped up his hat. It was a mix of confusion, astonishment, and pure lust.

Dean grins thinking about how horribly tonight could have gone but how amazing it’s been instead. He was worried he wouldn’t remember his moves, wouldn’t remember how to pole dance, wouldn’t remember how to get the crowd going. He was worried there wouldn’t be a crowd at all, that all his old fans had forgotten all about him and wouldn’t want to come out tonight to see him perform one last time.

God, Dean used to love this so much. Performing, dancing, making people happy, if only for a matter of hours and on an admittedly shallow level. He loved having hundreds of pairs of eyes trained on him, the rush of applause, feeling sexy and adored and admired.

He’s amazed at how easy it is to fall into his old routine. Sure, he’s gonna be sore as hell tomorrow-- god knows when was the last time he swung around on a pole-- but it feels so good opening up to Cas finally after years of holding it all in.

Dean knows he can’t take this any further, though, and he hopes Cas is okay with the precarious balance they have right now. Dean can never give Cas what he deserves. Cas is good and pure and innocent and smart. And whole.

And Dean just isn’t good enough for him.

If Dean had a dollar for every time John Winchester drunkenly slurred, “You break everything you touch, boy,” while shoving his index finger into Dean's sternum repeatedly, he would have never needed to start stripping in the first place. He remembers this when he wants to touch Castiel, when Cas seems so close and real and perfect, and Dean momentarily forgets.

He can’t take anyone’s heart, especially not Castiel’s. He breaks everything he touches. He was put on this earth to be a soldier in the war for free will. He causes nothing but mayhem and destruction.

He is an agent of chaos. A monster.

But not tonight, he reminds himself. Tonight, Dean gets to fall back into his old life. He’s not Dean Winchester, soldier; he’s simply _The Cowboy_.

Taking his cut of the cash, he shoves it in his wallet, and sees the corner of a picture sticking out. He pulls it out from the pocket where it stays hidden.

Shannon.

He wishes he could show her. Show her how much he’s grown from the skinny, awkward thug with a bad attitude and daddy issues into the man he is today, broken although he may be. He doesn’t take her picture out often, only when he needs to remember that there was a point in his life someone believed in him unconditionally. Believed he could break out of the confines of _the family business_ and pursue his passion of dance.

Dean traces his thumb around her black, curly hair. His teacher. His mentor. His muse.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Dean calls, putting the picture away and sliding his wallet back into the back pocket of his jeans, which are folded neatly on the chair next to him.

Shawn pushes his big bald head through the crack of the door. “Mr. Winchester? Your husband is ready for you in the VIP lounge.”

It’s time to show Cas that Dean doesn’t hide _anything_ from his audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the references I drew from in regards to stripping and pole dancing:
> 
> http://youtu.be/-J4vOaXPVho (Interestingly enough, I found this video AFTER I wrote the last chapter. My mind is just so cliche that the cowboy concept, the song, and the city all matched with the fic.)
> 
> http://youtu.be/w9gkt_GP4uw
> 
> So, readers, still digging it? Ready for the lap dance to end all lap dances? Ready to find out how the hell pre-canon Dean became a world-class stripper? I hope so, because that's what's next. 
> 
> Your kudoses and comments fuel my fire. Keep 'em coming?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Castiel wants to drown in the beautiful, fluid movement of Dean’s body."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Cas gets the lap dance of the century and learns about The Cowboy's history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, Dean *is* wearing the outfit from "It's a Terrible Life."
> 
> I apologize in advance for totally ruining these songs for you. Wait, no I don't. XD

Castiel sits in a big, comfortable armchair within a small, dimly lit room. What few lights there are shine different colors. There’s a large square of floor in front of him with a silver pole in the middle that goes from floor to ceiling.

His server, a broad-shouldered, tan, shirtless man with wavy black hair, briefed him on what to expect. “I know that The Cowboy is your husband, however it’s state law that in strip clubs which serve alcohol, there’s no touching allowed during private shows under any circumstance.”

“Uhh…” Castiel can’t tell if all of the blood escaping his brain to flee to the opposite side of his body is what’s making him slow on the uptake, or if he drank too many cosmos. Or both.

_Husband?_

The server continues. “Other than that, have a lovely evening, and please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. The Cowboy should be along shortly.”

“Uhh…” Cas reiterates, and the man leaves the room.

Cas, whose prevailing emotion is usually skepticism, cannot help but feel utterly thrilled at the incredibly strange turn of events of this evening. He had assumed that tonight would be mostly filled with the killing of vampires and the imminent danger of his life, followed by copious amounts of sexual tension upon sharing a motel room with Dean again, provided they managed to live through the evening in the first place.

Instead, Castiel is waiting for Dean Winchester to presumably walk in this room and start taking off his clothes in front of him while dancing and swinging around a pole.

Cas thinks tonight is-- to borrow a phrase from Dean-- _fucking awesome_.

Dean walks into the room wearing a blue pin-stripe shirt with a white collar, red suspenders, a matching red tie, and black slacks. He turns to the stereo system and takes his iPod out of his pocket to plug it in.

“Dean…” Cas begins, but Dean looks over at him and puts his finger to his lips, shaking his head.

He winks.

And Cas is already hard again. There’s no way he’s going to survive this. He thinks the vampire den would have been a safer way to spend his evening.

Dean looks at Cas, whose eyes are blown open with desire, and presses play.

Finding his element, he bounces his hips to the beat of the intro of the song.

Cas recognizes this song. Cas recognizes this song because it’s one of his favorites. One of his _very secret_ favorites. It’s up there with the entire _Space Jam_ soundtrack, which he purchased for $3 at a record store several months ago and has listened to no fewer than a hundred times since.

No. No way does Dean Winchester know this song exists. Let alone has it on _his own iPod_. Cas refuses to believe it.

[ _Feels so good bein’ bad… There’s no way I’m turnin’ back… Now my pain is my pleasure…_ ](http://youtu.be/pZJw0aKzEEs)

Dean moves nimbly to the beat at first, not looking at Cas, then starts slowly lifting his suspenders and sliding them off of his shoulders, rolling them with the rhythm. He lifts his shirt tails from their tucked-in position and teases Cas with a peek of his abs, making eye contact and smiling.

He steps forward into Cas’ space and straddles him while slowly slipping off his tie and snaking it out from around his neck.

Castiel’s breath hitches. “Dean, I…”

Dean gives him a stern look. His green eyes are blazing with lust and power.

He takes the tie and wraps it around the palm of each hand, then reaches forward to put it in Cas’ mouth and tie it in a knot at the back of his head, gagging Cas so he can’t speak. He bends to the side and rumbles in Cas’ ear, “No talking.”

Castiel really thinks he might die tonight. But he’s going to try not to, because nothing in life or after could ever be better than this moment.

Dean reaches up and slowly unbuttons his shirt, rolling his torso toward Cas to the beat of the music and running his hands over his own body. Cas stares at his chest and stomach and cannot help the muffled moan that escapes him.

Huffing a laugh, Dean unbuckles his belt and slides it off of his hips, bending it in half and grabbing each end of it to reach behind Cas’ neck and pull him forward. Their faces are inches apart. He can feel Dean’s breath on the side of his face, on his neck.

With every thrust of Dean’s hips, Cas can feel Dean’s dick lightly graze against his. That small, infrequent touch is enough to make Cas almost come in his pants, and he unconsciously reaches up to grab Dean’s hips.

Dean leaps off of him, giving him that warning look again, then squats down, whips his belt to the floor with a crack, and stands back up again, circling around Cas’ back. He grabs Castiel’s wrists and brings them behind the back of the chair, wrapping the belt around them and securing them in place.

Cas can’t move his arms. He can’t speak. All he can do is watch while Dean tortures him.

The song ends and flows into the next one. Dean bounces his hips again with the intro beat and slowly unbuttons his pants, sliding them off and stepping out of them.

[ _I must admit. I can’t explain. Any of these thoughts racin’ through my brain. It’s true. Baby, I’m howlin’ for you..._ ](http://youtu.be/A3scl0fl0zE)

He’s wearing a tight pair of briefs and nothing else. He’s hard too, and the briefs barely cover the tip of his cock.

Cas moans against his gag at the sight of this, and bucks his hips up in hopes the fly of his pants will provide friction. To Castiel's dismay, it doesn't.

Dean turns around and grabs the pole, spinning around it slowly, then hooking his leg around it and hoisting himself up and upside down. His back arches and he falls into the splits, then hooks his ankle only around the pole, spinning and stretching around in a feat of strength Cas can’t possibly imagine.

He gazes onto Dean as he spins and dances beautifully around the pole, curling his body around it, his arms, his legs; going sideways and backwards and upside down and right side up, all while never touching the ground.

Cas watches as his abs and arms and shoulders and ass and thighs and calves all stretch and tense and push and pull him around the pole, and Dean keeps moving like no one is watching him at all, like he was put on this earth just to move in such a way as to make Cas’ heart stop with sheer want.

Castiel wants to drown in the beautiful, fluid movement of Dean’s body.

But more imminently, Cas wants something, anything, to rub his dick against, because if he doesn’t get some friction soon, his brain is going to completely unravel.

The song ends and Dean gingerly rolls his body from its upside down position back to right side up, and steps off the pole.

He climbs into Cas’ lap again, and Cas bucks his hips up against him, but Dean backs away.

That is, until the next song starts. And then Dean thrusts himself into Cas once with every measure of the beginning of the next song.

[ _Here come old flattop, he come grooving up slowly… He got joo-joo eyeball, he one holy roller… He got hair down to his knee… Got to be a joker he just do what he please..._ ](http://youtu.be/axb2sHpGwHQ)

Cas looks down and sees Dean’s cock reaching out above the top of his briefs. He’s rock hard and leaking, swollen and red and wet with himself. Cas wants to touch it, to suck it, to be fucked by it, anything and everything Dean wants him to do and wants to do to him in return.

Dean rolls his hips in a circle against Cas to the tempo of the music, and leans forward, breathing ragged into Cas’ ear.

Cas wants to feel his lips against him. Anywhere. Wants any fraction of their skin to be touching. Cas is going to combust with want. His heart is hammering against his chest, and when Dean leans forward so that their bodies are flush against one another, grinding against one another, he can feel Dean’s heart beating at the same pace as his.

He wants to explore Dean with his hands and his mouth and his words, but he’s tied down, gagged, and completely at the mercy of Dean’s intentions.

Their dicks are lined up, and for the first time, Dean loses the beat, opting to rub himself against Cas with wanton desire, forgetting the music and their surroundings completely. He grabs the back of Cas’ head and threads his fingers through his hair, pulling him to the side and exposing his neck.

Dean’s voice is wrecked, barely a growl, and he’s panting. “Is this what you want, Cas? You want to be tied down, you want to be gagged, you want to watch me? You’re such a dirty fucking _slut,_ Cas. Is this what you want, slut?”

Cas can't even nod his head in response, so he groans against his restraints. He has lost total control of his body, thrusting up endlessly into Dean, but Dean always pulls away before he can get enough friction, enough pressure.

Dean finally starts thrusting onto Cas harder and faster, making little hitched noises, and Cas knows he’s close. His hand is still threaded into Cas’ hair, he can still feel his breath in his ear, ragged and panting.

With three final thrusts, Dean rumbles, “You. Are. _Mine_.”

_Come together. Right now. Over me._

Cas comes with a muffled shout and Dean with stopped breath, followed by a groaned-out exhale into Castiel’s neck and several more small twitches of his hips against him.

Dean leans back and stares at Cas momentarily. His face is flushed and he’s breathless, but he looks euphoric, angelic, happier than Castiel has ever seen him. Dean lifts his hand and gently caresses the side of Castiel’s face, runs his thumb along his bottom lip, while taking in the sight of him. “Mine,” he whispers.

***

The next day finds them sitting on the hood of the Impala, enjoying a picnic in front of a lake. It had been Dean’s idea to show Cas the city where he had apparently spent several years of his life.

Cas hadn’t known this. He thought the Winchesters were always moving.

Taking a bite of his turkey sandwich, Dean continues his explanation, “At 16, I’d dropped out of school. Sammy was doing okay, learned how to make friends, stopped getting bullied so much. We followed the trail of ol’ Yellow Eyes to Dallas, but the trail went cold by the time we got here. And it stayed cold. So Dad started drinking. And Sammy started staying with friends. And I didn’t really know what to do with myself. We were here a long time, waiting for the trail to heat up, looking for a hunt.”

“And that’s when you started stripping,” Cas adds.

Dean chuckles. “Not quite. At 16, I was just a young punk looking for a fight.”

“So how did being a young punk looking for a fight lead to becoming 'The Cowboy'?”

Dean finishes his sandwich and wipes the crumbs off on his jeans. “Man, that’s a long damn story.”

Castiel finishes his sandwich too and leans back on the windshield of the Impala, enjoying the early afternoon sun. He shrugs, “Not like we have anywhere to be.”

Dean sighs. “I don’t know, man. It’s not that interesting. The past is past.”

“It’s interesting to me,” Cas replies, turning his head toward Dean. "Please?"

“All right.” Dean takes a deep breath. “There was this woman, Shannon…”

***

Dean was 16, big enough to live up to the picture on his fake ID, but still too small for his dad’s leather jacket, which he wore all the time anyway.

It was a Tuesday morning. Dean had just dropped Sammy off at school, and was at the mall waiting for Sam to get out of school to take him home again. For a long time, that was his entire life: wake up, check on Dad, take Sam to school, bum around the mall, pick Sam up again, take Sam to a friend’s house or soccer practice or wherever, make dinner, pick him up again, bring him home, make all of them eat, bum around at home for a couple hours, go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

On weekends, he went out to the bars and hustled pool, scored with chicks, picked fights: all the things his father taught him was what a man should do during his downtime. Besides hunt of course, but that avenue had dried up for them.

On this particular Tuesday morning, Dean was in the record store, utilizing his five-finger discount. He shoved two CDs in his pocket— albums he thought he could make a buck or two on— when a woman passed the aisle he was in, spotted him, and did a double-take.

 _Shit_ , Dean thought.

She approached him slowly and with a compassionate expression, like the way someone approaches a dog they find at the side of the road.

Everyone saw Dean as the rabid dog that bit anyone who got close to him, but she always looked at Dean like the puppy who should have never been mistreated in the first place.

“Hi,” she said simply, casually.

“Hey,” Dean replied, not meeting her gaze, thumbing through albums.

“What’s your name?” she asked, head tilted to one side.

Dean looked at her then. She was older than him, maybe in her early thirties, with long, black, curly hair that was up in a ponytail, with a few perfect ringlets falling around her face. She was thin, and had such perfect posture that it kind of looked weird, because no one else stood that straight. She carried herself with poise and confidence, a trait Dean later learned, not from his father, but from her.

Dean was not one to give out personal information to strangers, even incredibly pretty ones. But he did anyway. “Dean,” he mumbled.

She smiled at him. “I’m Shannon.”

Dean looked at her and gave her a polite, noncommittal smile— the kind distracted people gave to retail clerks who told them to have a good day— hoping she would either turn and walk away or tell him why she was staring at him.

She did neither. She just stood there, facing Dean, and watching him absently flip through row after row of CDs. It was unnerving, and Dean was rarely unnerved. Especially by people much smaller than him.

He turned to her. “Look, is there something I can help you with?”

She smiled and shrugged. “I dunno, you got any albums you’re selling for astonishingly less than this store happens to sell them?”

Dean clenched his jaw and blushed. “No,” he replied, terse, and walked away, out of the store and into the food court.

She followed him. A few steps behind, he could hear her ask, “Why aren’t you in school?”

Dean didn’t reply.

She caught up to him, and matched his walking pace. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Why aren’t you in school?”

Through clenched teeth, Dean replied, “I graduated.”

“Bullshit,” she replied with a sly grin.

Dean stopped and turned to her, trying to seem menacing so that she would go away and leave him to his shoplifting in peace. “Look lady, it’s none of your damn business—”

“Do you dance?” she asked.

Dean blinked. “What?”

“Do you dance? Like… ever. While doing dishes. While getting dressed. While driving. At clubs. With women. With men. In your living room. In your bedroom. Anywhere. _Do you dance_.”

“I… well, yeah, I mean, I guess. Why?”

“Do you like it?” She looked alarmingly excited for someone asking a random dude she found in the mall a bunch of crazy questions.

Dean furrowed his brow in confusion. “I mean it’s okay I guess. Why?”

She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to Dean. It was pink and read _“Shannon’s Dance Studio”_ in big, darker pink cursive letters. “I have a proposition.”

“Okay,” Dean said hesitantly, examining the card.

“If you come to my studio and help me out with maintenance stuff, I’ll teach you how to dance.” Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm.

Dean looked up from the card, and pointedly ignored the tiny lurch of excitement in his chest. He didn’t have time for this shit. “Why the fuck would I want to learn how to dance?”

His standoffishness didn’t phase her. It never did. She smiled at him, wide eyed. “Have you ever looked in a mirror, Dean? Look at the way you hold yourself. You could be great. I can _feel_ it. Let me teach you how to dance. Please.”

He huffed a sigh.

“Thursday night at seven. I’ll keep a private lesson open for you. I can show you what I need done around the studio, and if you’re interested, I’ll give you your first lesson right then and there. Will you come?” she asked, smiling and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Look lady, I don’t know what game you’re playing—”

“Not a game,” she clarified. “Just a mutual exchange of labor.”

“—but I can’t.”

Still unfazed, she replied, “Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

Lips pursed, Dean paused for a moment, looking at Shannon with narrowed eyes, and said, “Fine. But don’t get your hopes up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Reference for pole dancing.](https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10152317450349454)
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thank you for your feedback and kind words! You're all amazing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the Dean that Castiel dragged out of hell. Dean’s remaining goodness had only been a tiny grain of sand, but it had shone so bright in the darkness of his soul that Castiel saw it all the way from heaven."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein YAY (?) FLUFFY FLASHBACK FEELS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Brief mention of abuse, gay bullying.
> 
> s/o to Jim's Donuts and my old dance studio.
> 
> Also, a friend pointed out to me that this might be too subtle: the music and literary references are all symbolic in some way to the plot itself. Some more obvious than others. So if you didn't pick up on that and want more insight into the psychoanalytic depth of the characters and postmodern intent of the plot, you can go back and investigate.

Dean stops the story abruptly and hops off the hood of the Impala. Cas follows, waiting for him to continue.

They walk on a path in the woods for a few moments, neither of them remarking on the similarity of these woods to those of purgatory, neither of them needing to. The closeness they’d developed over the years had accumulated entirely to this moment: floating on wavelengths so similar to one another that words, while pleasant, are mostly unnecessary. Their silence more often than not feels like a warm blanket.

Without the burden of words, they’re free to simply understand.

Or so Castiel often thought. At this moment, though, he’s surprised to have unlocked a new level of Dean. The one with passion beyond keeping his brother alive. The one who can see and mimic beauty and art. The one who openly acknowledges his interest in Cas.

The one who defines himself by his own terms and no one else’s.

This is the Dean that Castiel dragged out of hell. Dean’s remaining goodness had only been a tiny grain of sand, but it had shone so bright in the darkness of his soul that Castiel saw it all the way from heaven.

“So did you go?” Cas finally asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Dean replies.

“What made you decide to?”

Dean shrugs. “The book I was reading at the time.”

“What book?” Castiel's curiosity is endless.

They stop at a clearing that has a picnic table situated at the bank of the lake. Dean picks up a couple of smooth rocks and sits down, throwing one of them, which skips across the water.

“ _Stranger in a Strange Land_ by Heinlein.”

Cas knits his eyebrows together in confusion. “How did Heinlein’s seminal work make you decide to take dance lessons?”

Dean skips another rock. “Because I hated it, and I didn’t want to keep reading it, but it was all I had to do. We didn’t have a TV or anything, and the library would only let me check out a few books at a time. I mean, I finished it after a few months, but it was a drag.”

“It’s generally known as a novel that shaped American culture. How could you possibly think it was a ‘drag’?” Cas asks with air quotes.

Dean shrugs. “I dunno, man. Just seemed kinda douchey that an ugly rich white dude with ugly rich white dude problems would have the gall to write a book on sexual revolution. And then he gets lauded for it, when Chopin’s _The Awakening_ doesn’t get nearly enough credit.”

Cas gapes at him. “Dean, even I haven’t read _The Awakening_.”

“The hell does that mean? _Even_ you?” He scoffs while skipping another rock. “You should, by the way. It explains feeling restricted in your sexuality better than _Stranger_ , and it was written 60 years earlier.” Dean pauses. “Shannon made me read it.”

“Whom you went to see that Thursday, right?” Cas nudges Dean toward continuing his story.

Dean takes a moment to reply, staring off at the water with his eyes unfocused. He looks down at his hands. “Yeah, I mean even though I hated every word of it, it still got to me, you know? Heinlein’s whole concept of _grokking in full_  or whatever and how I was just a miserable kid fighting someone else’s war. It didn’t matter how many chicks I laid, how many demons I killed, how many fights I won… there was just something missing. So I went.”

***

Dean parked the Impala in the tiny parking lot behind Shannon’s Dance Studio. It was a little hole in the wall in the back of a building that consisted of the studio, a barber shop, and a 24-hour doughnut shop called Jim’s Donuts.

At the very least, Dean thought, he could get himself a doughnut after his inevitable failure as a dancer.

The brick wall on the outside of the studio had a large mural of ballerinas, but aside from that, there was no way to tell that Shannon’s Dance Studio was even a place of business.

Dean walked in and a little bell jingled above him. The studio was old and dusty. There were a row of three ugly orange chairs against a wall, a desk in front of the door with an appointment book instead of a computer, and a large open space, presumably for dancing. Mirrors lined one wall, but they were cracked in several places. The ceiling leaked. The tiles on the floor were uneven.

No wonder this lady needed maintenance help.

Shannon walked out from a room near the front door he hadn’t noticed, and beamed at him. “Dean! You came!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him.

Dean froze. He was not used to hugs. Steamy makeout sessions, yes. Getting punched in the face, yes. Pats on the back for knocking out whatever punched him in the face, absolutely yes.

But not polite, platonic hugs.

She pulled away and looked him up and down.

“You’re wearing jeans,” she commented.

Dean shrugged.

She smiled anyway. She always smiled when Dean did something dumb, as if his failures were the most endearing thing in the world.

Because she was the only one who understood that Dean could learn from his mistakes. And she was the only one who trusted him to fix them.

“That’s okay,” she said excitedly. “Let’s get started.”

“Don’t you want to talk about…” he pointed at the leaky ceiling, “first?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh! No, I wanna see what you can do! We can talk about all that boring stuff later. C’mon, take off your shoes and jacket,” she gestured at his outfit impatiently.

Dean hung his jacket on a hook by the door and slipped off his boots.

Shannon was at the stereo, picking out an album. “Perfect!” she exclaimed, and inserted the CD.

She waved at Dean to join her in the middle of the room.

Dean walked toward her as she lifted her arms, then put one arm on her waist and the other in her hand.

They began the Waltz, which Dean was surprised he knew how to do from watching movies.

[ _First the mic then a half-cigarette… Singing “Cathy’s Clown”... That’s the man that she’s married to now… That’s the man that she takes around town..._ ](http://youtu.be/WL1ly1GMwwc)

“Hah hah,” he said.

“What?” she asked, smirking.

“You think you’re so clever.”

Shannon laughs, “That’s because I am.”

“This is one of the albums I stole from the record store, isn’t it?”

“The very same,” she replied with a shake of her head and a grin.

Dean smiled at her then, genuinely, for the very first time.

They danced silently for a few moments, before Shannon remarked, “Have you ever waltzed before?”

He checked his feet. “No. Never. Why? Am I terrible? I told you this was a bad idea.”

She laughed again. Dean was not used to people being happy in his presence. “No! I’m just… you’re _leading_. And you’re doing it like you’ve done it a million times before.”

Dean shrugged. “Well I mean… It’s not that hard. I’ve seen it in old movies a bunch. It’s just 1-2-3, 1-2-3,” he said as he swept her around the room dramatically.

“This is amazing, Dean! I’ve never seen anything like this. Can you tango?” she asked.

Dean chuckled. “I doubt it. I mean, I’ve never tried it, and I’ve seen it in movies too, but… isn’t it difficult?”

The song ended and she stepped away, “Getting it perfect is hard, but the basic steps aren’t.”

They spent the next fifteen minutes learning the steps and then Shannon put on another CD.

A Latin beat began, and she approached Dean to get into position.

[ _Baby, do you understand me now?... Sometimes I feel a little mad… But, don't you know that no one alive can always be an angel..._ ](http://youtu.be/Oso0ieD8-tI)

They flowed through the dance as though they’d practiced it dozens of times before. Dean messed up a couple times, but Shannon was patient with him and rewarded his successes more than condemned his mistakes.

Dean had never had a teacher like her. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have dropped out of school.

The song ended, and Shannon exclaimed, “Oh Dean, you’re so much better than I could have ever dreamed!”

Dean scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah well it’s probably just a fluke.”

She looked at him sternly. “Have faith in yourself. You’ve found a talent. _Embrace it_.”

Dean was silent. “So do you want me to stay and fix some stuff?”

“Ugh!" she exclaimed, flailing her arms. "I hate even thinking about it. What do you think needs fixed?” she asked, staring around the room.

“I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

She put a hand to her chest, looking faux-offended, then dropped it. “Is it really that bad?”

Dean paused. “Well. It’s not good.”

“But you can fix it, right?”

Dean hadn’t really thought about that tiny detail. Sure, he’d helped his dad on a few handyman jobs, and he could fix a car blindfolded, but he’d never actually attempted a project of this magnitude. This was not the time to let on that he had no idea what he was doing, though. He finally met someone who thought he was worth something, and he didn’t want to break the facade just yet. “Yeah. Absolutely. It’ll just take some elbow grease, and I’ll get her polished right up.” He said with a grin.

Shannon let out a sigh of relief. “Thank god. Can you come by again sometime tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Dean replied. They said their goodbyes, and Dean walked next store to purchase a victory doughnut, pleased with himself for the first time in his life.

***

“Then what happened?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs, and stares off into space. “I kept going.”

“You kept going.”

“Yep.”

“And that’s it.”

Dean shrugs again.

“Again, failing to see how a few dance lessons at 16 led to alternative persona as a cowboy stripper,” Cas deadpans.

Sighing, Dean finishes, “It worked out for a long time. And then it didn’t. I fixed up her studio, put in hardwood flooring, replaced the mirrors, installed ceiling fans, hung up a sign, replaced the ceiling tiles, installed a surround sound system… but I lost the battle about the air conditioner. She told me that she learned to dance in the heat of the summer, and it made her a better dancer or something. She wanted her students to get tough skin the way she did I guess, but I still felt guilty for all the six-year-olds who just wanted a damn popsicle.

“Anyway, I dunno. She gave me private lessons every other day, and I fixed up her studio every other day. Eventually everything got fixed, and we were both really bummed out about it, until an instructor quit and she hired me to teach her children’s beginner ballet class.” Dean smiles at the memory and looks to Cas. “Those kids were so fucking cute, man. It was a blast. I could never keep a straight face. They just kinda wiggled around and fell down, and sometimes I could get them to do it in sync to make it look like dancing.” He laughs and shakes his head. “It was so fun.”

“And then?” Cas pleads.

Dean shrugs. “Got into it with Dad. He followed me one day. Caught me in one of Shannon’s advanced jazz classes. Pulled me out by my shirt and threw me against a wall. Called me a fucking faggot. Shannon screamed at him. Told him I was the most talented dancer she’d ever known, told him I single-handedly fixed her studio when she was about to go out of business, told him I gave her hope, that I could be great if he would just nourish my talents instead of beating them out of me.”

Wide-eyed, Cas asks, “So what did he do?”

Dean swallows. “He beat them out of me.”

Castiel is speechless.

There are no words for the remorse he feels on Dean’s behalf, so instead of pushing him to finish his story, he sits next to Dean on the picnic table and wraps an arm around him.

Dean leans into him, resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder.

They sit together watching the sunset over the lake, wrapped in the warm blanket of their affectionate silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll get back to the smut soon. In the meantime, feedback pls?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean Winchester is art as a human being."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein the author tries her damndest to move the plot forward but ends up with an entire chapter of fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Pukes glitter all over you* Here, have some domestic Destiel feels.
> 
> (My face hurts from smiling while writing this chapter.)

Dean and Cas are at a grocery store foraging for Lazy Sunday food. Dean is comparing the prices of the generic mac ‘n cheese versus the sale on the name brand. He decides the sale on the name brand is a better deal and reaches to the back of the shelf to get the last couple boxes.

“Dean, are you a dom or a sub?” Castiel asks abruptly.

Dean stands up suddenly and hits his head, hard, on the shelf above him.

“Dammit, Cas!” he quietly grumbles through clenched teeth. “What happened to starting those kind of questions with a ‘Dean, may I ask you a personal question?’” he asks, mimicking Cas. He rubs the back of his head.

“If you can’t remember, my preface last time was ineffectual,” Cas deadpans with barely concealed irritation.

Dean rolls his eyes, throws the mac ‘n cheese in the basket, and stomps away.

Castiel catches up to him when he reaches the check-out lane. “So are you a dom or a sub?”

Dean slowly turns to Castiel, eyes wide. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

The cash register blips as the cashier, a young Polynesian girl with acne, slowly scans each item from their basket, staring at Dean and Cas with interest.

“What?” Cas asks.

“We’re in public!” Dean shouts. Several people look over, and he ducks his head down, whispering urgently through his teeth, “Now is not the time for this conversation.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Why not?”

Dean sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “Because, _Cas_ ,” he breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and continues slowly, pausing between each word, “a discussion of my intimate sexual preferences in public is not appropriate.”

Castiel replies casually, “That’s ridiculous, Dean. BDSM is deeply ingrained in the history of--”

“-- _virtually all cultures_ , yeah, I know, you’ve mentioned that.” Dean grabs the bag of groceries from the cashier, who hands them to Dean along with his change, grinning.

He looks at her as he shoves the change in his wallet. “Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re full of rainbows and unicorns too?”

She nods excitedly.

“Ugh!” Dean exclaims, throwing up his hands as he walks away. “Somebody get a guitar so we can all have a round of kumba-fuckin-ya up in here!”

She calls after them, “Have a _wonderful_ evening!”

***

An hour later, they’re in their motel room eating big bowls of mac ‘n cheese in their separate beds while watching reruns of _Law & Order: SVU_. Having been unable to decide on anything they felt like doing that day, they defaulted to spending a majority of it in their pajamas. Dean is wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and no shirt while Cas is wearing blue-striped cotton pants and a faded _Dark Side of the Moon_ t-shirt that Dean gave him.

Dean has his laptop perched on his knee watching YouTube videos of auditions for _So You Think You Can Dance?_ during the commercials.

“No. The answer is no. You cannot dance,” he says to his laptop after a particularly gruesome audition video.

Castiel finishes his mac ‘n cheese, and gets up to put his bowl in the sink. Dean lifts his up for Cas to take too, and he does.

When he comes back, he sits next to Dean on his bed to watch YouTube videos with him. Dean is taking up most of it, so Cas settles in on his side, body propped up on his elbow, watching the screen over the tops of Dean’s knees. He tilts it toward Cas so he can see better.

“That one was impressive,” Cas says at the end of a video.

Dean scoffs. “It really wasn’t. It was sloppy at best.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Cas says with a hidden smirk.

He grins down at Cas. “Is that a bet?”

“Maybe.” Cas grins back.

“What do you want to bet?”

They’re close. To Cas, the three small places their bodies are touching feel like they’re on fire.

“Kiss me,” Cas replies, voice huskier than normal, not daring to tear his eyes from Dean’s.

Dean chuckles and stares openly at Cas’ lips, moving in slowly. Their faces are so close that Cas can’t even focus his eyes on Dean’s freckles anymore. Then Dean stops abruptly, and says, “Fine. But I choose when,” while grinning, his bottom lip between his teeth.

Cas rolls onto his back and groans. “You’re killing me, Dean Winchester.” Then he sits up. “But I get to pick the song.”

Dean stands up and loosens his muscles while kicking aside their mess all over the floor: blankets, extra pillows, empty Chinese take-out boxes, and clears a reasonable space for himself. “Go for it,” he tells Cas. Then with his fake Southern accent, adds, “Ain’t no challenge too big for The Cowboy,” and winks at Cas.

"Uh huh." Castiel pulls up another YouTube video and increases the volume. Dean is staring at the ceiling trying to figure out what the song is.

After a few measures, he says, “Oh come on, how do you expect me to dance to Bobby D?” holding out his arms in a helpless gesture.

Castiel mimics Dean's Southern accent in an atrocious attempt of his own, “ _Ain’t no challenge too big for The Cowboy._ ”

Dean laughs, while getting a sense for the beat, and rocks his hips. The rest of his body follows.

[ _‘Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood, when blackness was a virtue, the road was full of mud… I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form… “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”_ ](http://youtu.be/tZQR-o4nO1E)

What follows astounds Cas more than words could ever describe. Dean is a physical manifestation of Castiel’s favorite song of all time.

It is Cas’ favorite song simply because the lyrics are a poetic representation of their relationship.

And now Dean is symbolizing those lyrics with his body. Beautifully. He spins and dips and thrusts his chest forward then draws it back. He lifts his leg above his head and spins on the pivot of his hips. He starts to fall gracefully, then rolls out of it immediately and stands back up, dips back down, arches his back up off the floor and stands up again in one fluid movement.

Dean Winchester is art as a human being.

He is everything Castiel has ever loved about humanity rolled up into one package of bones and muscles and tendons and nerves and neurons and cells. He is made of the stars and the sky and the ground and the earth and the sea. And fire. He is fire and passion and honor and loyalty and kindness and compassion and strength. And he is love. More than anything, Dean is love.

And Castiel can no longer breathe.

The song ends and Dean grins expectantly over to Cas, with no apparent awareness of Castiel’s imminent asphyxiation. Jaw loose, he finally breathes in, and blinks.

“Dean, that was...” he begins, shaking his head in astonishment. Then he remembers the bet. “...terrible. It was terrible.”

Dean does one of his whole-body laughs where he throws his head back and puts one hand on his stomach. The sound of Dean’s laughter, which is incredibly rare, is intoxicating to Castiel, especially knowing he’s the one who caused it.

“No, really, Dean, that was awful. It was so bad that I’d be willing to give you another try, but, you know, a bet is a bet." Castiel is having a hard time hiding his smile.

Dean closes the gap between them and bends over Castiel, still grinning. He stops right before their lips meet, and Smoulders, flicking his eyes down to Cas’ lips and back up again, darting his tongue out to quickly wet his own lips.

Castiel stops breathing again.

And Dean moves right past him to turn his laptop around.

“Really, Dean? Really?” Cas asks, irritated and hard as a rock.

Dean types something into the search bar of YouTube and replies snarkily, mimicking Cas, “ _A bet is a bet._ ”

He hits play and turns the volume up as the music starts. Cas narrows his eyes and tilts his head.

Dean backs up, shimmying his shoulders with the beat, and holds out his hand for Cas to take.

Cas looks at his hand and back up to Dean, oblivious.

“C’mon, Cas, let’s dance.”

Castiel had not realized until that very moment that he had always wanted Dean to say those words to him.

Cas takes Dean’s hand, and Dean grabs his other, pulling one toward him and pushing the other away, back and forth, leaning forward and then backward and pulling Cas along with him. He pivots one of his feet and shakes it back and forth along with his hips.

“What is this?” Cas asks, confused and trying to keep up.

[ _C’mon, baby, let’s do the twist…_ ](http://youtu.be/yqVFJNcQ4X0)

“The Twist!” Dean replies excitedly.

Cas tries to twist too, but can’t get the hang of it.

“It’s all in the hips, dude. Start with those and let the rest of your body follow. You gotta loosen up.”

Castiel focuses on loosening his hips and trying to move them like Dean’s.

“There you go! You got this.”

Dean lets go of his hands and starts adding movements, lifting his arms and hopping up on his toes, snapping his fingers, and shimmying around Cas. Cas tries to mimic some of those too.

“Look at you!” Dean says with the snap of his fingers to the beat. “And here I thought you were just a stodgy fallen angel. You got some moves!”

The song ends and they collapse in bed together, breathless. They’re facing each other and their knees are touching. Dean has his hand on Castiel’s waist, and Cas is resting his arm on top of Dean’s, gently rubbing circles on his forearm.

They stare at each other in happy silence for a long time.

“So,” Castiel begins, breaking the silence. “Are you a dom or a sub?”

Dean throws his head back against the pillow and does another full-body laugh, which Castiel thinks is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I get your lamentation over angst, I sure as hell better get some squee-ing over happy feelses too!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They’re silent for long enough that Cas forgets there was a question at all. He forgets the room around them. Forgets the world around them. Forgets the impending doom forever looming over their heads. He is surrounded only by the strong, steady beat of Dean’s heart against his ear."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Dean strips for the very first time, meets his very first dom, and fleshes out some pre-canon details we've all been wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the rampant misandry in this chapter.
> 
> But I do really like finding ways that strong women helped shape Dean's identity.

Dean rolls over onto his back and puts his arms under his head.

Castiel’s skin is cold where Dean was touching him.

He wonders how unwelcome it would be to slide over and rest his head on Dean’s chest. His heart beats rapidly at the thought of it, but he decides against it.

“I don’t really like doing labels," Dean begins, "but I get that it’s needed for, you know, safety or whatever. So if you’re really that interested,” he pauses. “I’m a switch.”

Cas narrows his eyes. He would tilt his head too, but it’s currently horizontal and resting on a solid object. “A switch.”

“Yep.”

Castiel can figure it out from context alone, but he wants Dean to explain it anyway. Because it's hot. “What's a switch?”

Dean sighs. “It’s someone who tops and bottoms, or could, given the situation.”

“Do you have a preference?” Cas asks.

“Most switches do, but I really don’t. I just prefer that whoever is the opposite is really fucking good at it. Bad subs are annoying, and bad doms are… well, terrifying.” He shudders.

Castiel ponders this. “How many doms have you had?”

Dean chuckles. “Somehow that seems _more_ personal, giving you numbers. I’ve only had one consistent dom, who considered herself a dom, _my_ dom, and taught me everything I know about kink. And stripping, kind of. I mean, she didn't teach me how to strip, but she got me into it. She also taught me how to be great at it. How to read people, play into power dynamics, really reach into everyone’s core and pull out their inner filthy whore, you know? But that’s a long story.”

Cas shrugs into the pillow, “Not like we have anywhere to be.”

Dean remains silent. Castiel stares, and gets lost in the galaxy of Dean’s freckles.

“If you don’t want to tell me, will you at least finish the story of how you became The Cowboy?”

Dean clenches his jaw, and says quietly, “They’re the same story."

Cas inches over closer to Dean, lifting his head and gently putting it down on Dean’s chest, and entwining his legs into Dean's.

There’s a moment where Cas isn’t sure how Dean is going to react, but he can hear Dean’s heart speed up, feel a tiny gasp in his chest, and the world freezes for a terrifying moment.

Then Dean wraps his arm around Cas and leans into him. Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s abdomen, watching it rise and fall with Dean’s breath, and Dean plays with the fabric of Cas' shirt.

They’re silent for long enough that Cas forgets there was a question at all. He forgets the room around them. Forgets the world around them. Forgets the impending doom forever looming over their heads. He is surrounded only by the strong, steady beat of Dean’s heart against his ear.

When Dean begins, his voice, though quieter, seems enormous because it reverberates through his body, which is solid underneath Castiel’s head. The effect makes Cas feel like he is inside the story itself.

“Dad took us out of Dallas the day after the fight with Shannon," Dean begins, "claiming he got a tip about Yellow Eyes in Minnesota. I didn’t say goodbye to Shannon, didn’t tell her where I was going, or why I was leaving. And I never told her thank you for turning my life around. I was 17 by then, and Sammy was 13. God, he was such a snot at that age. I couldn’t stand him, and I couldn’t stand Dad, so I flung myself into hunting. By the time I turned 18, I was just a killing machine. I didn’t think, I didn’t feel, all I did was follow commands. For years we were on the road, never staying anywhere for more than a few months, tops. Then Sammy got accepted into Stanford and left.

“I dunno... He was like the glue that held us together. He’s what made Dad and I not kill each other in our sleep. The only things Dad and I really had in common were a hatred for evil motherfuckers and a love for Sam. So without one of those, I really didn’t have a reason to stay. Sammy doesn’t know this, but when he left for Stanford, I went back to Dallas.”

***

Dean had never felt at home anywhere in his life except for Dallas, Texas. He loved the arid summer air. He loved the people. He loved the food. Everything was bigger in Texas, and pies and bacon cheeseburgers were no exception.

When he finally arrived, he realized he wanted a real job. An honest to goodness job that would involve an I-9, a background check, and a piss test.

For the first couple weeks, he hustled pool to make ends meet, finished maxing out the stolen cards he had on hand, and then he finally got a call for an interview to wait tables at a bar called The Saloon.

The owner, Gina, was a no-bullshit type who “liked the cut of Dean’s gib” as she had said to him at the end of their interview, which consisted mostly of whiskey and shooting the shit.

The only real interview questions she asked him were, “Can you pretend to be nice to people even when they’re assholes to you?”

To which Dean replied in the affirmative.

And, “Can you make straight chicks and gay dudes fall in love with you with a single glance?”

To which Dean replied by taking her hand and giving her The Smoulder.

She laughed, pulling her hand away, and said, “That’s sweet, hun, but I don’t bat for your team.”

Dean was only mildly surprised to find that The Saloon was a male strip club, though in retrospect, Gina’s questions made a lot more sense.

Dean’s uniform was a pair of black pants, a waist apron, and a bowtie. That was it. He was given the instructions to shave his chest and armpits, and when he first clocked in, a dude named Tony threw a tube of baby oil at him.

“What’s this for?” Dean asked.

“Gotta suit up, brother!” Tony replied.

This was how Dean began his long-term battle with the dexterity involved in handing people drinks while being perpetually slippery.

At first, Dean was self-conscious about being half-naked and oggled by hundreds of bar patrons every night.

Later he realized that despite the innate _wrongness_ in being constantly objectified, it was actually kind of… hot.

He liked people appreciating the body he worked hard at perfecting. He liked seeing unabashed lust in the faces of so many people staring at him. He liked falling in love with everyone just long enough to get a good tip.

Dean managed to rake in more dough in 30 hours a week than the median income of a middle-class family.

And he was having a blast doing it.

Several months into his foray as a strip club waiter, Dean had his first regular.

The first night he met her, she was staring daggers into him. He could feel her eyes on him, feel her follow him around with her gaze the entire night. Unlike most of his customers, she was alone. Every night, despite the heat, she wore a long, black trenchcoat and a large-brimmed, black hat that concealed most of her face. She only ordered pisco sours, and she was never interested in the stripping.

She was only interested in Dean.

The fifth night in a row she asked to be seated in Dean’s section, Dean approached her table and asked politely with a plastered-on smile, “Good evening again. Can I start you off with a pisco sour?”

She slowly turned up the corner of her mouth and leaned forward toward Dean, the intensity of her big, brown eyes staring fiery holes into Dean’s green ones. In a low voice, she started speaking to him in Spanish, an entire paragraph, wherein she narrowed her eyes periodically and shook her head. At the end, she bit her plush, pink bottom lip seductively and looked him up and down.

Dean blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know Spanish.”

She laughed, and in a thick Spanish accent, replied, “I want to have some fun tonight. So I’m going to play a little game with you, Dean. If you win, I’ll reward you.” Then her eyes darkened. “If you lose, you will be punished.”

Dean’s handbook on waiting tables did not provide advice for handling wacko stalkers. Despite his ability to always think on his feet, this woman made his brain melt.

He couldn’t tell if it was because he was exhausted, or because she was really fucking hot.

The idea of a punishment from this woman didn’t seem like it could be that bad. 

“I’ll go get you your pisco sour,” was all Dean could manage to reply.

The night wore on and he had no idea how this woman was testing him. She just stared at him as he made his rounds, greeted customers, retrieved their drinks, paid out their tabs, and bussed his tables. Over and over again.

Two hours from closing time, Dean delivered the woman’s third pisco sour to her. “Dean,” she began as he was about to walk away. “I am terribly sorry, but you have lost the game.”

“I’m sorry?” Dean asked, pretending he had forgotten about her enigmatic proposition hours earlier.

She continued. “You must be punished. Go get me your manager. Thank you.” For the first time that night, she turned away from him.

“No, no no no, I am so sorry, I didn’t know the rules. Let me get you another pisco sour, on the house,” Dean pleaded.

She looked at him once more, leaning forward slowly so that their faces were just inches apart. She trailed her finger under his jaw. “I do love a man who begs,” she spoke in a low voice, staring at Dean's lips. Then she turned away again, flicking her wrist in Dean’s direction dramatically. “But go get me Gina. I will not ask again.”

Dean had no idea what was going on, but he remembered in his handbook that if a customer asks to see the manager, you go get the manager.

Gina was helping bartend that night because the house was packed. A cigarette with more ash than tobacco hung out of her lips precariously, and as he approached, she pulled it out and took a shot of whiskey.

“Hey, Gina,” Dean began casually, setting his tray down on the bar.

“Hey, Dean,” she replied in the same manner, putting her cigarette back in her mouth and shaking two mixers at once.

“I don’t really know what happened, but table A7 wants to talk to you.” He trailed his fingers absently around the circles on the non-slip mat.

“Why?” she asked around the butt of her cigarette.

He shrugged. “No clue. Mentioned something about a game earlier--”

Gina sighed and rolled her eyes, “Oh goddammit, Katarina,” she said, slamming her mixers down. “Hey Tony!” she called down the bar, “Finish this up for me, will ya? C’mon man, get your shit together!”

She stubbed out her cigarette and stomped out in front of the bar, gesturing Dean to follow her, and asking, “You lost the game, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know I was playing one!” Dean exclaimed, gesturing helplessly.

“No one does, kid. I don’t even know the rules. The outcome is always different, though. But she technically owns a third of this bar, so I oblige her.”

Dean stopped, “Wait, you’re business partners?”

Gina continued walking and Dean hurried to catch up. “In a legal sense, yes. The bar was going under a couple years ago, and she bought in to keep it afloat. Technically, she doesn’t have to pay her tab, but she does. And she’s here most nights, with her eye on somebody. And there’s not really a damn thing I can do about it. Luckily, no one has _actually_ complained about her yet, so whatever happens between her and the boys isn’t any of my damn business.”

They got to table A7, and Gina said flatly, “Katarina, you crazy bitch.”

Katarina turned around and for a moment, Dean thought he was about to see a chick fight. Then Katarina grinned from ear to ear and exclaimed, “Gina, my _puta_!” standing up to hug her.

“The hell did my boy do this time?” Gina asked, gesturing to Dean, who stared at this exchange with confusion.

Katarina pouted. “He had three whole hours to drop his silly little tray and whisk me away back to Peru. And he didn’t.”

Gina dropped her head backward and groaned. “Did you even make that an option for him? Look at the poor guy, he’d totally do that!” she gestured back to Dean again, whose jaw had dropped to the floor.

Katarina smiled sheepishly, “It's not my fault you won't hire bilingual employees! But still! I demand this be rectified." She paused, and flicked her eyes to Dean. "I want to see him on stage.”

“Stripping?” Gina asked, incredulously.

Dean’s eyes were about to pop out of his head.

“ _Si_ ,” Katarina replied curtly.

Gina turned to Dean and, sighing, asked, “Do you wanna get up there? You really don’t have to. We’ll figure out another way to shut this crazy bitch up if you don’t.”

While Gina was talking, Katarina slowly and seductively opened her mouth and licked her upper lip from one side to the other. Then she winked at Dean while pressing her lips together in a kiss.

Dean’s dick spoke on his behalf. “Yeah. Yeah I’ll go on stage. No problem,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulder.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was regretting his entire life.

He was wearing white, spandex tightie whities-- the _real_ dancers kept a stock of fresh ones on hand and Dean didn’t want to know why-- with a pair of jeans, cowboy boots, a leather vest, and a cowboy hat.

It was a classic getup for most of the strippers, considering they worked at a club called “The Saloon.”

But that night, The Cowboy was born.

Dean walked on stage, staring blankly into the bright lights and the anonymous faces of the several dozen audience members.

The music started, and Dean stared at the floor. It was the exact same plywood anchored flooring he installed in Shannon’s studio years before.

He closed his eyes and remembered himself there, after class and freestyling to whatever Shannon put on the stereo, the dry summer heat evaporating the sweat from his body as he moved, and the cool chill of the evening flowing through the studio. He remembered Shannon’s delighted face whenever he tried something new, remembered how it felt to be adored, remembered the way Katarina looked at him with raw fire in her eyes.

Unconsciously, he began slowly moving his body to the music.

[ _I wanna be your kingpin…_ ](http://youtu.be/f4TdBTSKHKs)

He dropped all thought and let his body flow with the music, let his vest fall from his shoulders, let gravity push him and pull him as he lept up on the pole and started spinning. He thrusted and gyrated his hips to the beat, rubbed his hands all over his body and up through his hair, and threw in some ballet, to the delight of the audience, whose volume increased by the second.

The song ended, and Dean looked around.

He had somehow managed to strip down to only the spandex tightie whities and his cowboy hat.

And there was a crowd of people out of their seats and in front of the stage, waving bills at him and asking for more.

As much as he wanted to oblige them, he saw Gina staring at him from backstage and shaking her head sternly.

Dean ran backstage, and Gina grumbled, “A7 needs another goddamn pisco sour.”

Dean put in an order for one and hurriedly got back into his uniform even though it was last call. He was riding the high of being on stage, being able to dance again, being in the limelight.

He delivered Katarina’s pisco sour and she coyly gestured with her index finger for him to come closer.

Dean leaned down and she reached up to his ear. Instead of speaking, she took Dean’s earlobe in with her tongue and gently bit down on it, which brought out a low, unexpected moan from Dean.

She whispered, “I think you should come home with me tonight… _Cowboy_.”

***

Dean stops, and lifts his head to check on Cas. “Did you fall asleep?”

He can feel Castiel’s lashes on his chest as he blinks. “No. What happened next?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Gina asked me to start doing some group dances, then I got some solos, then I got the VIP room, then I started choreographing, and then… I don’t know. Somewhere in there I got really famous in the stripper circuit.”

“What about Katarina?” Cas asks.

Dean hesitates.

“What, Dean?”

Dean fidgets a little before saying, “I was kind of… her sex slave. You know, in a consensual way. For a long time.”

Cas pauses, a tiny thrill running through his body at the thought of Dean as a sex slave. “Were you happy?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think I was. I made good money, I had good sex, and I was on my own doing what I loved.”

“What about Shannon? Did you ever go back?”

“No,” Dean says quietly.

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “I just couldn’t face her, you know? Knowing I had taken her gift and bastardized it for the masses. Turned something beautiful and innocent into something corny and cheap, just because it made me feel… I don’t know… loved, I guess.”

“When did you leave to start…” Cas gestures around the room.

Dean sighs. “When Dad and I agreed to part ways, we also agreed to check in with each other every week, no matter what. He skipped two weeks in a row. So I left, went looking for him. Couldn’t find him, so I went and got Sammy, told him Dad had gone on a hunting trip and hadn’t been home in a few days. Saving people, hunting things, the family business, yadda yadda. And the rest is history.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Where is Katarina?”

Dean shrugs again. “Not sure. Probably in Dallas still, unless she went back to Peru. Why?”

“Do you have her number?”

“Yeah, somewhere." Dean can't help the smile the creeps up from his lips. "...Why?”

Cas sits up to grin down at Dean. “Can we invite her over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready to take a break from this annoying plot stuff and get to some goddamn smut?? I sure as hell am. I thought that's why I wrote this?!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shocked, she brings the crop down and across Dean’s cheek, then takes it back up and lifts his chin with it, moves her face closer to his, and whispers slowly, 'You have been a bad, bad boy, Dean Winchester.'"
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein we interrupt this regularly scheduled plot development to bring you smut. Just smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all outta words for this one, folks. Except for, "Daaaaaaamn." I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. ;)
> 
> Update: I [wrote a timestamp](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2174490) immediately following the events of this chapter if you're interested in reading it.

Dean presses the end call button and looks at Cas. “Well I’ll be damned. She says she’ll be over in a couple hours.”

Cas grins.

“So,” Dean starts, unable to hide the excitement on his face. “We should probably carb up. Pizza?”

***

Half an hour later finds them in a pizza joint down the main drag, drinking beer and splitting a large pepperoni.

“Dean, may I ask you a personal question?” Cas asks.

Dean blinks at Cas, rolls his eyes, then holds up a finger while he finishes chewing his bite of pizza and swallows. Then he takes a drink of his beer with his finger still held up, swallows that too, and sets it back down. He leans back against his chair, folds his hands, and opens his mouth to reply.

Cas begins to speak, but Dean holds his finger up again for a moment, then finally puts his finger down and replies with a flourish of his hand, “You may.”

Cas gives him a stern look. “I just wanted to know if you’ve ever had gay sex.”

Dean pauses, then leans forward, buries his face in his hands, and groans.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cas says around a bite of food.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Dean mumbles, “I didn’t really tell you the whole truth earlier today.”

Cas blinks. “About being an incredibly talented dancer, then deserting your father, moving to Texas, becoming a famous stripper, and also someone’s sex slave for several years. You didn’t tell the whole truth. You’re saying there is, somehow, more truth to be told.” He sets his pizza down and folds his hands.

Looking away from Cas, Dean continues in a low voice, “I was a male escort.”

Cas blinks again. “You were a prostitute,” he infers.

Dean looks at him sternly and whispers, “Will you please keep your voice down? And no, I was an _escort_.”

“What’s the difference?” Cas asks, genuinely curious.

“I… don’t actually know,” Dean replies, eyebrows knit together. “I got to wear suits I guess. I didn’t stand on street corners. Everything was arranged.”

“By Katarina,” Cas infers again.

“Yeah.”

“So Katarina was your dom _and_ your pimp, is what you’re saying.”

“Yeah.” Dean wrings his hands together.

“I thought you were ‘raking in dough’?” Cas asks with air quotes.

“I was,” Dean replies defensively. “But Sammy’s got a secret too. And I feel bad for telling you, because it ain’t my business to tell, but…” he takes a deep breath. “He got kicked out of Stanford after his first year.”

Cas gapes. Not at Dean being a stripper, or a sex slave, or a male escort. But at Sam. Getting kicked out of Stanford.

“How?” Cas asks, astonished.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh come on. You’re trapped in a damn car your whole life, on a tight leash with your brother and dad, can never make friends of your own or be a normal kid. So he got to college, and for the first time in his life, he was a normal goddamn kid. He partied to shit and failed miserably.

“But Stanford, we found out, is a really nice place. They told Sammy he could come back after a semester off. I don’t know what he did that semester. I think he may have gotten a job on an organic farm or some shit and that’s how he learned all his dumb rabbit-food stuff. Anyway, they let him back in, but he didn’t get his scholarship back. And he missed the deadline to apply for loans. So he called me up and asked me for some money. So he could go back to school.

“I told him no at first, you know? I made enough to get by, live comfortably. But the night he called me, after Katarina and I had finished our thing, I made the mistake of telling her about it. Her eyes lit up, told me she ran this ‘side business’ as she called it, and would be willing to hire me on. Real easy work, she said. Just put on a suit and go to parties with rich old ladies. Smile a lot. Be arm candy. There were two points of fine print I neglected to read before I signed up. One, these rich old ladies wanted some dessert with their entree; and two, they weren’t always ladies." Dean leans back in the booth and crosses his arms across his chest, looking away and adding, “So I did it. For Sammy.”

Cas narrows his eyes, tilts his head, thinking a moment, and asks, “But did you enjoy it?”

Dean looks at him and smirks. “You know, it sucked, at first. I had this battle with myself about the morality of taking money for sex. Selling my body. Then I realized I spent years taking chicks home for one night stands as a fucking _hobby_. How was this any different? How was it ethically different than stripping? Katarina filtered my clients with a fine tooth comb. Everyone was attractive, not completely insane, and clean. Man, if her files ever got out, a lot of powerful people would be in a lot of fucking trouble. But you know, when it came down to it, after a while, I kinda liked it. It was fun. I was good at it. I was making great money and helping Sammy out, helping my clients out, most of whom were pretty damn cool. Ten times better than a boring cubicle job, and paid more, and was more fun. So yeah, I guess I did enjoy it.”

Cas beams, “Then that’s what’s important.”

Something changes then in Dean’s face. It softens briefly, and he meets Cas’ gaze, looking at him with an expression Castiel can’t place. His lips are slightly parted and there’s a wrinkle in his forehead, like he’s seeing Cas for the first time.

“You don’t care that I sold my body for money. For years.” It isn’t a question.

Cas tilts his head. “Should I?”

“Most people would, yeah.”

Shaking his head, Cas shrugs.

“Why not?” Dean asks.

Staring at the table, Cas pauses in contemplation. “You’re like a Monet painting,” he begins slowly. “From far away, I can look at you and see a beautiful picture. But the closer I get, the more details I can make out. The little dots that make up who you are. I can focus on those dots, how some of them are more like blemishes than paint strokes. I can focus on the dots I like better and ignore the ones I don’t like as much. Or I can look at all the dots put together and realize that none of them are flawed at all, because they're all part of the same picture: a masterful work of art.”

Dean gapes at him for a moment, blinking slowly. "Cas, I..." he begins, and stops himself. To Castiel, his expression is still open yet unreadable, his stare slightly glazed over as he stares into Castiel, from one eye to the next, examining his face like a phenomenal discovery.

Then he squares his jaw, stands up, and says, voice rougher than usual, “C’mon, we gotta get going.”

***

There’s a knock at the motel room door, and Dean opens it, beaming down at Katarina, who is wearing her trademark wide-brimmed black hat and trenchcoat.

“Dean, _mi amor_!” she exclaims, and wraps Dean in a big hug.

Dean lifts her up off the ground, sets her down, and holds her away from him at arm’s length. “God _damn_ , Katarina, you haven’t aged a day.”

“You are too kind. And you still look as innocent as the day I first met you,” she cooes, her hand on Dean’s face. “And by that I mean, not at all. Oh, but you are like fine wine! You have aged beautifully, my darling.”

Dean grins, and Katarina turns her attention to Castiel. She glides over to him, setting her large handbag on the table, and takes Cas by the chin, examining him.

“Oh, _mi amor_ , your husband is a very handsome man,” she says to Dean, gently pulling Cas’ face left and right and up and down, as though Castiel were not actually there, standing in front of her or staring right at her.

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Oh yeah, about that. I just said that to get Cas into the club because I didn’t know his last name and so I used mine, and then I realized blood relatives would be weird to give lap dances to and, you know, well… it’s complicated.” Dean clears his throat.

She looks back at Dean, still holding Castiel’s chin. “Does that mean I may have him?”

Grabbing the front of his shirt, she pulls Cas down for a kiss, but before their lips touch, Dean interjects, “Nope!” He puts an arm between them. “No, yeah, he’s still mine. It’s just you and me in the scene tonight. He’s just gonna watch. I'm, um, teaching him some stuff, I guess.”

Katarina lets go of Castiel and pouts. “That’s too bad. It’s been days since I’ve had two men in me.” Unbuttoning her trench coat, she says, “Let’s get started, shall we? I left Gina at home with the twins and she is not good at the voices in their bedtime stories, so I doubt they'll be asleep when I get home.”

“Hold up,” Dean says. “What now? You and Gina and ‘the twins’?”

Katarina stops unbuttoning her coat, and replies, “Gina and I… business partners, best friends, wives. What’s the difference?”

“You’re _married_?!” Dean asks, incredulous.

She looks up at Dean and laughs. “ _Si, mi amor_. And we have two beautiful sons, Armand and Rodrigo.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

With an exasperated sigh, she replies, “Oh please Dean, like I would ever pass up the opportunity to put you on your knees. And really, do you expect two women who own a male escort service and one of the largest strip clubs in the United States to have an average sex life? Our bodies may belong to many, but our hearts belong to each other. Now come on, let’s get started.”

She drops her trenchcoat, revealing a black lace corset, a black thong, black stockings, and a red garter belt.

Until this point, Castiel had never been attracted to a woman. Or anyone, besides Dean. But this woman, who so confidently strides into their motel room and strips off her clothing, who has such comfortable and intimate rapport with Dean, who loves deeply and understands sexuality in the same way Cas does, who has dark olive skin and is shaped like a literal hourglass, makes Castiel’s jaw drop.

“I know, right?” Dean says to Cas, spotting his reaction. Then he leans into Castiel’s ear and whispers, “Sit back and enjoy the show.”

Castiel sits. And then shifts his dick, now half-hard, into a more comfortable position.

Dean and Katarina stand in front of each other, staring at one another. “Johnny Cash?” Katarina asks Dean seriously.

“I’m sorry, what?” Castiel interjects.

Dean turns back to him. “It’s the go word, so we know when we scene. Same reasoning as the safe word, but vice versa.” He turns back to Katarina, and replies, “Johnny Cash,” with a grin.

Katarina lifts her hand and slaps the grin off his face. “Get on your knees, _puto_.”

Dean immediately drops to his knees. She grabs him by the hair and tilts his head back, leaning into him. “I am very upset with you. You leave, you don’t call, you don’t check in. You are in town and you wait to tell us you’re here. How dare you, you filthy whore.”

“You knew I was here and you didn’t call me either!” Dean exclaims defensively.

She lets go of his hair and slaps him across the face again. “ _Puto!_ How dare you talk back to me! Have you forgotten all of the manners I taught you?”

He explains, “No, I just—”

“You just what, whore? What?” She walks to the table, opens her bag, and takes out a riding crop. “I’m waiting,” she says, crop poised above Dean.

He stares at her and smirks. “Just seemed like you went kind of soft is all.”

Shocked, she brings the crop down and across Dean’s cheek, then takes it back up and lifts his chin with it, moves her face closer to his, and whispers slowly, “You have been a bad, _bad_ boy, Dean Winchester.”

Still smirking, Dean asks, “Will I be punished, Mistress?”

Katarina smirks back and replies quietly, “Yes, I am sorry to say you will, _mi amor_ ,” gently caressing his face with the riding crop over the quickly reddening mark she just left there, then closes the distance between them and catches Dean’s lips in a searing kiss.

She parts from him, and commands, “Naked. Now,” then glides over to Castiel and bends over him, looking him in the eyes. “And for you—”

“Hey,” Dean starts, while unbuttoning his pants. “Hands off. He’s mine.”

She stands and turns toward Dean. “The possessions of my possessions are still my possessions,” she remarks, then turns back to Cas and strokes his cheek, whispering, “But I can see how much you want him, yes? Always looking, never touching, right?”

Castiel nods, wide-eyed.

“Do you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” she whispers into his ear.

Cas nods again.

She winks. “Me too.”

Standing, she crosses to her bag and takes out two lengths of rope. Dean finishes undressing and she directs him, “Pull a chair up next to your man and sit down.”

Dean does, and she makes quick work of tying both of their arms behind the backs of their chairs. They’re facing the bed, and their knees and arms are barely touching.

Castiel notices how hard Dean is, and the sight puts him in the exact same state.

Katarina stands in front of them, and walks backward to sit down on the bed. She’s holding a large, pink, phallic toy.

Lifting and spreading her legs, she leans back and touches herself with it, grazing over her panties and looking straight into Dean’s eyes.

Dean bites his lip.

She rubs herself harder and faster, eventually lying back all the way and shifting her panties to the side, rubbing the toy in her wetness and getting it slick.

Pressing it into herself slowly, she starts moaning, shoving it into her hole over and over, deeper and harder until she’s panting. “Dean,” she groans, lifting herself back up while fucking herself with the dildo. “Dean,” she looks into his eyes, her face a mask of pure pleasure. She bites her lip and breathes quickly, heavily, moaning out, “Oh god, Dean, I want you inside me. Fuck me, Dean.”

Dean growls and pulls at his ropes, to no avail.

Castiel can now see that Dean is throbbing and leaking all over himself, unable to touch himself, or Katarina, and in the exact same boat as Cas.

For what feels like the millionth time in a week, Castiel thinks that he is not going to survive this night.

“Mistress,” Dean says through clenched teeth. “I would be happy to fuck you, but please, untie me.”

Katarina slips the toy out of herself with a pleasured sigh, then stands up and crosses to Dean, shoving it into his mouth.

“Lick it clean, whore,” she instructs.

Dean does, eyes on Katarina as he takes the huge toy in his mouth. She shoves it further and further down until Cas thinks Dean may choke, but he doesn’t.

She pulls it out, then crosses over to Cas.

“Hey! I said no touching him!” Dean exclaims, pulling against his binds.

“I’m not,” she replies, shoving the toy into Cas’ mouth. “I don’t think he got this clean enough, do you?” she asks Cas. “Maybe you can do better.” She thrusts the dildo into Cas’ mouth repeatedly. Cas is achingly hard, and from his peripheral vision, he Can see Dean gulp, eyes wide, as Katarina fucks his mouth with her toy.

Cas is filthy with it. He moans around the dildo and closes his eyes, lets Katarina shove it deeper down his throat. Cas calms his gag reflex by breathing deeply through his nose. “Look at you, handsome man. My toy’s toy is sucking my toy, and there’s nothing my other toy can do about it,” she says with a smile.

“Please, Katarina,” Dean pleads.

“Please what, whore?” she asks, still twisting and pulling and pushing the dildo into Cas’ throat.

Dean stares at them, open mouthed, pleasure and pain and want etched on his face. “Please untie me.”

“Tell me, Dean,” Katarina begins. “Is this what you want to do to Cas?” She pulls the toy to the side so that Cas’ head is turned toward Dean. They meet each other’s gaze, and Cas sees that Dean’s face is raw with want. Katarina continues, pulling the toy in and out of Cas’ mouth, twisting and swirling it around, “Do you want to shove your cock into his mouth until he almost gags? Make him lick your cum off of you? Fuck his mouth like the slut he is? Come all over his face while he’s tied down?”

Dean gasps, and moans, “God, yes. Please _please_ let me go. I can’t take this!”

She leaves the toy in Cas’ mouth, and walks to her bag to get out a condom. Unwrapping it, she rolls it over Dean’s throbbing cock, and Dean sighs with relief at the touch.

Castiel is not so lucky. He moans in frustration around the dildo that’s gagging him.

Katarina shimmies out of her thong, tossing it toward her bag, and straddles Dean’s lap. She pulls his head back by his hair, and licks a stripe up his throat and to his chin, then bites gently around his neck, stopping at his earlobe to suck it into her mouth.

Dean gasps and moans in pleasure, and it’s like an electric shock to Cas’ aching dick.

Katarina slides her wetness back and forth on top of Dean, barely touching his cock with her slit, rocking back and forth, swinging her hips in circles, taking Dean’s mouth in a deep kiss while biting and sucking on his lips furiously. She starts to rub against him faster, kiss him harder, until Dean is only panting, “Please, please, please,” between kisses. He pulls absently at his restraints, and his face is contorted in a mix of emotions ranging from heady pleasure to agonizing pain.

Castiel feels like he’s going to burst with the tension Katarina creates by teasing Dean with her cunt.

“Do you know how it feels, Dean, to want something so bad and not be able to have it? To not be able to touch it?” she asks quietly, writhing on him rhythmically. “To not be able to _take_ it?”

Dean can’t answer. He’s too absorbed in panting out pleas and moaning in torture.

“Do you think about Castiel when you touch yourself, Dean?” she asks. “Do you think about bending him over and fucking him? Do you think about staring into those baby blues while you’re balls deep inside him and taking him apart?”

Dean doesn’t answer in words, just broken noises and fast breaths escaping him.

“Speak, Dean. Do you want Cas?” she whispers in Dean’s ear, looking over at Cas and winking.

“Yes!” Dean shouts, voice wrecked, “God, yes, please, Mistress. Please just fuck me. _Please._ ”

“I want you to look at him while I fuck you, Dean.”

Dean turns toward Cas, and when their eyes meet, Katarina finally pushes Dean all the way inside her.

Shouting, Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ, Katarina. _Holy fucking god._ ”

Katarina thrusts her hips into Dean’s, rocking herself on top of him, faster and harder. Dean bucks up into her, and they match rhythms, breathing heavier and moaning louder by the moment. Dean opens his eyes and trains them on Castiel as directed, and Cas' face flushes in response, bucking his hips into air in an attempt to find relief. 

Dean’s muscles tense, and Castiel thinks he’s about to come, when Katarina quickly slides off of him and grabs the base of Dean’s cock between her fingers. Dean's head rolls back, and he slowly relaxes.

She runs her other hand through his hair and cooes, “Good boy.”

Walking around to the back of the chair, she unties Dean’s ropes. Dean lifts his arms and inspects them, saying, “Gonna leave a burn.”

Katarina chuckles, “You shouldn’t have fought so hard against them, _mi amor_.”

Dean stands up, walks over to Cas, and takes the toy from his mouth. “You okay?”

Cas nods.

Dean smiles warmly at him, and touches the side of his face, brushing his thumb across Cas’ lower lip, and then slowly dipping it into Cas’ mouth.

Cas rolls his tongue in circles around the pad of Dean’s thumb.

“Goddamn, Cas,” Dean groans, stroking his dick with his other hand, staring down at Cas who is staring up at him with blind, wanton lust in his eyes.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Katarina interrupts. “If I wanted to watch gay porn, I could have stayed at home with my wife.”

Retracting his thumb from Cas’ mouth with a slight look of remorse, Dean turns to Katarina. “Yes, Mistress?”

She smiles. “Very good,” and pushes at the center of Dean’s chest, until he steps back far enough that the back of his knees hit Castiel’s.

“What—” Dean starts, and then she pushes him down.

On top of Castiel.

She straddles the both of them, taking Dean inside her again, and resuming the quick pace from moments ago.

Castiel’s cock is pressed firmly against the crack of Dean’s ass, as Dean simultaneously grinds up into Katarina and down on top of Cas.

Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s back, moaning, voice cracking, louder and louder as Dean rubs against him with the momentum of Katarina’s thrusts.

“Oh god, Dean,” Castiel growls, now fighting against his restraints like Dean was. He can’t stop himself from biting into Dean’s shoulder, licking and kissing every inch of him he can reach. He can’t help the words that he speaks into Dean’s ear, “Dean, oh god, fuck her. Fuck her as hard as I want to fuck you. Oh god I want to be inside you, fuck, Dean. Please…” and starts nipping at his back again, sucking hickies into the soft spot underneath his shoulder blades.

Dean hisses in response. His hands are on Katarina’s hips, guiding her onto him, harder and harder.

Katarina speaks in ferocious Spanish, eyes closed and face lifted upward, thrusting herself on top of Dean over and over, and rubbing circles over her clit, moving faster and faster. Dean bucks his hips up into Katarina and back down onto Castiel, and Cas can feel his muscles begin to tense again.

Cas is close, and Dean is closer, but Katarina is closest, and she comes with a shout, one hand at her clit and the other combed through Dean’s hair, chanting, “ _Mi amor_ , oh god, _mi amor_ ,” while riding out the waves of her orgasm.

Dean continues pumping furiously into Katarina, hands at her hips, forcing her down onto him deeper and grinding up into her further. When he's at the brink, he asks, voice straining, totally wrecked, "Please. Mistress. May I?"

"You may," Katarina breathlessly replies.

Dean comes with a sharp intake of breath, pumping furiously into Katarina and onto Cas.

Feeling all of the muscles in Dean’s back and ass twitch and writhe during his orgasm while flush against Castiel pushes him past the point of no return, and he comes with a gasp, bucking his hips up and grinding against Dean’s ass.

Katarina gently slides off of Dean, and Dean lifts himself off of Cas.

“I hope," Katarina remarks with a sly smile, "that your punishment has taught you a very valuable lesson, _mis amores_."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester is proud of the person he has become."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein after riding the highest of highs, Dean is met with a harsh reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but I think a fic about Alex, Katarina, and Gina going into business together would be a blast. I would also like this to be a reality show.
> 
> Now for some srs stuff.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: gay bullying, mild abuse

Dean has successfully dredged up his past. Not his dark past, because his dark past is virtually indistinguishable from his present, but his… more colorful past. Rainbow past, to be specific. Really, his pretty gay past. And now he’s coming to terms with his potentially pretty gay future.

He can admit this to himself with the help and patient thoughtfulness of Castiel, who is not by nature blindly positive, nor devoted, nor loyal. Dean can see him contemplate all the information given to him, process it in full, and then accept that information into his mind and heart. Along with Dean.

After a lifetime of shoving repressed thoughts and memories into his overstuffed broom closet and locking the door, it’s nice to finally open it, and be free of all the burdensome clutter within.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Dean is happy. Not the euphoric, I-just-got-laid kind of happy-- although he is very much that too-- but the steady kind of happy. The kind that doesn’t burn with its intensity. It’s not a bonfire, but a candle. A candle that burns brightly, infinitely.

A candle named Castiel.

This is why Dean decides to sneak out the next morning before Cas wakes up.

He wants to go see Shannon, and tell her all the thoughts that have been running through his mind since that night his dad tore him away from the pursuit of his only real passion.

Thus far, he has managed to dust off the boxes labeled “stripper,” “escort,” and “switch,” from their place in his closet, sift through the contents, and put all of it up on the shelves in his mind, to be acknowledged, to be looked at and admired, along with all the other facets of his identity: being a hunter, being a brother, being a son.

And, if he plays his cards right, maybe even being a boyfriend.

For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester is proud of the person he has become.

He just needs to dust off and unpack that final box in his closet, labeled "dancer."

Dean attempts to slide out carefully from the entanglement of Castiel’s legs. He can say for certain that he has never woken up with another man in his arms, and he is unused to the sharp angles of male hipbones, the body hair, the stubble, the broad shoulders and chest. His escorting days included copious amounts of cuddling, but only with women. The men all preferred to fuck and part ways immediately thereafter.

He would normally be freaked out waking up in this situation, but at this moment, with the sun shining brightly through the window, and the warm morning air wafting in, and the possibilities of the day to come, Dean finds the newness of Castiel’s solid, muscular body a novelty.

Closing his eyes and breathing in that beautiful smell of sunshine and Castiel one last time, Dean glides off the bed in one swift motion, with the grace afforded to him as both a hunter and a dancer.

Castiel’s brows furrow and he shifts a little, making a deep grumbling noise. Dean huffs a laugh, smiling down at him, and places two pillows in a row behind his back, where Dean had just been laying, and covers Cas’ shoulder with blankets.

Dean gets ready quickly and quietly, and takes the Impala to the dance studio.

He parks in front of Jim’s Donuts, going inside to eat a breakfast consisting of one of Jim’s famous glazed twists and a big glass of chocolate milk. Shannon’s studio probably isn’t open yet, so he dashes across the street to the florist to get a dozen roses.

Walking behind the building, he is not prepared for the way his heart races at the sight of his old home away from home (or would have been, if he had ever had a home to begin with): the ballerina mural, the poorly paved parking area, the sign he hung up with the big pink cursive font, still hanging above the door.

And the brick wall across the small alleyway that his father had roughly thrown him against while spitting out the question, “What are you, _a fucking faggot_?” Dean can see his face so clearly, his anger etched there, and below it, his immense disappointment at having a _fucking faggot_ for a son. One who enjoys using his body for art instead of war. One who appreciates beauty instead of violence.

As that horrible, defining moment rolls around in his head, he takes a deep breath, and opens the door to step inside.

The bell jingles, and he looks around.

Nothing has changed, really. There’s finally a computer on the front counter. The stereo looks like it’s been updated. There’s a fresh coat of paint on the walls.

But the three ugly orange chairs are still lined up by the door. The flooring and ceiling fans Dean installed are still there, but older: the fans wobbling as they spin, the floor scuffed up with shoe marks of dances and classes Dean never got to participate in.

What takes his attention, however, is the back wall of the studio, and the small rectangular window there.

The window is holding an air conditioner.

Suddenly, Dean’s gut instinct-- the instinct that guides him in every disastrous situation in his life, of which there have been a great many-- is that something is very, very wrong.

Shannon would only allow an air conditioner to be placed in her studio, in her exact words, over her dead body.

_Oh._

“Oh god no,” Dean whispers to himself, dropping the roses to the ground.

A woman walks out of the office, and asks, “Hi, can I help you?”

Dean turns to her. She’s a small, blond woman with a pretty face and perfect, confident posture. The kind that only Shannon can teach.

Clearing his throat, he asks, ‘Who are you?”

“I’m Marlene. This is my studio,” she replies suspiciously.

Dean shakes his head. “This is Shannon’s studio.” He points in the direction of the sign he hung up years ago.

He sees Marlene’s eyes dart to the roses on the ground. “I’m sorry,” she begins. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dean,” he replies gruffly. “Dean Winchester. Where is Shannon?” His voice is an octave higher than he intended, more urgent than he intended, because deep in his gut, he knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to believe it.

Marlene’s face softens. “I’m sorry, Dean. She passed away three years ago.”

Dean clenches his jaw and swallows. He can feel the blood draining from his face.

He’s handled a lot of death. He’s lost a lot of people.

But all of them, even though he loved them, were part of the dark side of his life.

Not Shannon, though. Shannon was part of the bright side. Shannon was pure. Shannon was good. She wasn’t touched by evil, she possessed no malice toward anyone, she only wanted to bring beauty into an awful, ugly world.

“Do you need to sit down? I can bring you a glass of water,” Marlene says softly, approaching him slowly, with her hands raised toward him. The way Shannon did when he first met her, like he was a dog about to bite, but was worth saving anyway.

Dean sits down in one of the ugly orange chairs and puts his face in his hands.

Marlene sits next to him, perched at the edge of a chair and turned toward him, patting his back hesitantly. “I’m her niece, by the way.”

Dean stares at the floor. “How… how did she…” he trails off.

“Cancer,” Marlene replies quietly. “She… she fought hard, ran the studio the whole time.” Dean can hear her voice break as she continues, hear the tremble in her voice. “It hurt, you know? But she kept dancing. She kept teaching. She just… kept at it… until she couldn’t.”

Marlene falls silent, rubbing small circles absently on Dean’s back.

She gasps suddenly. “What did you say your name was?”

Dean looks at her blankly. “Dean Winchester.”

Marlene beams at him while sniffling and wiping away a tear. “I knew I recognized that name. She left something for you.” Getting up, she hurries to the office.

When she comes out again, she’s holding a small, square present. At her feet is a little girl, about seven years old, with brown curly hair falling around her face in perfect ringlets.

“Shirley,” Marlene says down to the little girl. “This is Dean Winchester. He’s a friend of your mommy’s.”

“Hi, Dean,” she says softly, her face half-hidden behind Marlene’s thigh.

“Hey, Shirley.” Dean smiles wanly through watery eyes, and swallows, burying the bubble of tears threatening to escape him.

Marlene hands him the small square package. It’s wrapped in plain brown paper with a string around it and an envelope on top. In Shannon’s neat, curly handwriting is Dean’s name.

“Thank you,” he says, staring at the package. “Where… is she…” he trails off again.

Marlene gestures out the door, to the east. “Stonequarry Cemetery. About half a mile down the road.”

“Thanks, Marlene,” Dean replies, and squats down to face Shirley, who shrinks back further behind Marlene.

“Your mom…” he begins to say, but has trouble finding the words. He can’t figure out how to properly explain to a small child the depth to which Shannon helped him, how she was the first of two people to drag him out of hell. “Your mom saved my life.”

***

Dean stares blankly at Shannon’s tombstone. It reads:

_Shannon McCane_   
_1968 - 2011_   
_Teacher. Mother. Friend._

“But you were so much more than that,” he says to her, setting the flowers down on her grave.

He sits down, cross-legged, at the foot of it, remembering a line from a poem she had asked him to read:

_I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground._

Aloud, he speaks another line from the same poem while rubbing his thumb over the petals of the roses: “More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.”

He remembers the package, and takes it out of his pocket.

Gently unwrapping it, he sees what it is and smiles through tears that fall too quickly.

Elliott Smith’s _XO_.

The same damn CD he stole from that store in the mall all those years ago. The one she caught him stealing. The one with the waltz they danced to for the very first time, the very first moment Dean realized he might be good at something other than killing. The one with the lyrics that he had no idea would become so relevant so many years later:

_I’m never going to know you now_   
_But I’m going to love you anyhow_

Dean opens the envelope just as carefully as he opened the package, knowing that Shannon’s hands were the ones to piece it all together. Knowing her hands were the last hands to touch this letter.

It’s on plain, college-ruled notebook paper, written with plain, ballpoint pen. Yet Shannon always managed to turn that which was plain, ordinary, everyday into art. Her handwriting alone leapt off the page, much like the way she danced: with grace, with perfection, with soul.

The letter is dated November 12, 2010. It reads:

_Dear Dean,_

_I hope one day you read this, and I hope on that day, I am the one to give it to you. But I don’t think that’s likely._

_I need you to know that you are the most talented dancer I have ever known. You have a gift. Cherish it. Use it. Perfect it._

_Your father may have given you your name, but your father doesn’t get to choose what that name means._

_All my love,_   
_Shannon_

Dean stares at the words, reading them over and over. For hours. Or maybe minutes. Or maybe even days. Dean doesn’t know. He just keeps reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this chapter and the next were meant to be one chapter, so all the bad feels would be condensed, but I had to cut it into two. 
> 
> Here is the link to the full poem referred to in this chapter, which is Edna St. Vincent Millay's ["Dirge Without Music"](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CCsQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fvserver1.cscs.lsa.umich.edu%2F~crshalizi%2FPoetry%2FMillay%2FDirge_without_Music.html&ei=K0JbU9vTGOn52AXtooA4&usg=AFQjCNF_hhzjlILSoFnckH2fGl5SACguEg&sig2=X3huJHwjh_DJyWVhCnqysQ&bvm=bv.65397613,d.b2I)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cas understands desire and depravity, love and lust. He understands that although he has never himself had sex, he still makes love to Dean every time their eyes meet."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein a lifetime of bottled-up emotional torture finally shows its effects in the face of unforeseen tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a deep breath. You're gonna need to brace yourself for this one.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: gay bullying, trans bullying, mild violence, verbal abuse
> 
> Note: 'So it goes' is always the line written after someone/something dies in the novel _Slaughterhouse-Five_ by Kurt Vonnegut.

Castiel wakes up the next morning alone, with two pillows positioned behind him where Dean had been. He smiles at the prominent meaning of this tiny, affectionate gesture.

Finally, Cas thinks, after everything they’ve been through, Dean is starting to see the light of day. He’s starting to open up. He’s starting to accept himself without the strict limitations of his father’s overbearing command, without forcing himself into boxes in which he will never fit, without pushing everyone who loves him away.

Cas, too, is beginning to understand the fluidity of love within the context of the human condition: how it is both defined in the day to day lives of everyone on earth, yet infinite in its scope and presence. With Dean’s help, Castiel is beginning to be able to put his thoughts and emotions into action, the flood which has been dammed up for centuries. The way Dean moves, the way he connects his head and heart to his body, has brought an entirely new level of cohesion to Castiel’s understanding of what it is to be human.

Castiel not only feels love, but now he can express it, too.

He knows that sex is a fundamental aspect of life. Before this endeavor began, he recognized it as a necessity, which is still true. But now he understands the depth and breadth of sex, how it saturates everything, is found in every nook and cranny of every culture, every moment of history, and always will. It motivates, it debilitates; it creates life, and it destroys it too. Cas understands desire and depravity, love and lust. He understands that although he has never himself had sex, he still makes love to Dean every time their eyes meet. He knows their intimacy resonates deeper than both of their physical bodies, and that his heart would never be complete without Dean in it.

But still, Cas thinks, it would be great if they could actually have sex.

Because he really, really wants to.

Castiel’s cell phone buzzes under his pillow. He checks his phone to find a text message from Alex.

_A: Hey gurl. What are you doing with your life._

Cas ponders that. He had been unaware that Alex would be interested in such philosophical, introspective conversations.

_C: That is a very good question. At present, I’m laying in bed. But in the grand scheme of things, I feel rather directionless. You?_

_A: omg. It was a figure of speech._

_C: I don’t understand how that question can be interpreted in any way other than literally._

_A: OMG. You crack me up, sugar. I need updates! Last I heard, you were sexting your man and then all of a sudden you’re in Dallas he’s giving you a striptease in front of the whole damn world._

_C: It’s a long story. May I call you?_

_A: Oh lordy yes please. I’m just sitting in a parking lot pretending to clock speeders and DYING of boredom._

_C: All right. Let me take a shower first and I’ll call you in 15._

_A: Do NOT keep me waiting any longer than that, doll, or I will just explode with tension. <3_

Cas gets out of bed and puts on a pot of coffee. The sky has suddenly become overcast, with storm clouds quickly rolling in and the wind picking up speed. It’s the first time he’s seen this kind of weather in Dallas: every day on this trip thus far has been warm and bright.

He closes the window against the oncoming storm and hops in the shower, thinking of which details to give Alex, and deciding to leave a majority of Dean’s history out of it. From his understanding of human privacy, it is inappropriate to tell people specific details about another person’s life.

Cas gets out of the shower and pours himself a cup of coffee, sitting down at the small motel room table and picking up his phone to dial Alex.

Alex picks up after the first ring. Instead of any traditional kind of greeting, he says, “GIRLFRIEND. Tell me _everything_.”

Castiel chuckles softly and immediately launches into the story from the very beginning, when he abruptly told Dean he wanted to have sex.

Alex interrupts. “So wait a minute. You’re a virgin?”

“Yes,” Cas replies flatly.

“God _damn_ this story just got ten times hotter. Who needs smut when I have Innocent Castiel to tease me with his Jade Tricks?”

Castiel laughs outright, a response he is unaccustomed to, but one he thinks he needs to try more often. He continues his story where he left off, and Alex responds with appropriately placed gasps and “Mhm”s and “ _Ooooh gurl_ ”s.

They talk for an hour or so until he has finished his story, and elaborated on all the details he felt were needed, and answered all of Alex’s questions.

“Honey,” Alex begins. “I’m gonna give this to you straight, which is hard for me, because I don’t do _anything_ straight: you got something special. And it’s on the right track. But you’re not there yet, sugar, so you gotta steer it in the direction you know it needs to go, or this whole train is gonna derail before you get a chance to even see the destination. You feel me?”

Cas nods, knowing Alex can’t see him. “Yeah,” he replies, “I feel you.”

There’s a short silence when Cas can hear the key card at the motel room door beep, and Dean walks in. On the other side of the line, he simultaneously hears Alex say, “Oh _hell_ nah. Motherfucker better not have the audacity to go 70 in a 35 right the fuck in front of me. I gotta go lay down the law, babe. Keep me posted!” and the line goes dead after a split second of a police siren beginning to wail.

Dean immediately throws his keys on the table and goes to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of whiskey. He downs it in one shot and pours another, not bothering to take his hand off the bottle.

Castiel notices he’s trembling, and his shoulders are hunched, and he hasn’t yet acknowledged Cas at all.

“Dean, are you okay?”

Rain begins to pelt the windows, and the light in the room dims rapidly.

Dean takes another swig of whiskey. “Who were you talking to?” he asks gruffly, still turned away from Cas.

“Just Alex,” Cas replies. “What’s wrong?”

Dean huffs a laugh, finally turning to Cas, and asks passively, “What, is he your boyfriend now or something?”

Castiel is confused. Dean is drinking, and it’s only noon, a habit which he had thankfully stopped years ago. He’s shaking. His face is red and puffy, and there are deep shadows under his eyes. Everything suddenly feels _wrong_. “No, he was just bored at work and you were gone so I--”

“Took advantage of the situation,” Dean finishes, and takes another gulp of his drink.

“No, Dean, we were just talking--”

“Whatever, man. Do whatever the hell you want. Fuck whoever the hell you want. I don’t care.” He kicks back the last of what’s in his glass and pours yet another.

“Dean!” Cas exclaims. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Dean laughs darkly as thunder rumbles in the distance. “What’s wrong with me? Nothing’s wrong with me, because I’m not the faggot who’s fucking a goddamn tranny.”

Castiel gasps. He is so blindsided by the sudden change in Dean’s behavior that he has no control over his response. “What, do you have the societal awareness of a brick? Alex is a _drag queen_ , Dean. Anyone with an emotional IQ higher than that of a 12 year old should be able to understand the difference between a ‘tranny’ and a drag queen, and also know not to exploit that difference for the sake of cruelty and the perpetual marginalization of an entire group of people. And I swear to god, if you ever call me a faggot again--”

“You’ll what,” Dean responds, stepping into Cas’ space and utilizing the two inch height difference to tower over him menacingly.

Cas doesn’t answer. He merely meets Dean’s gaze, and evenly replies, “I’m allowed to have friends.”

Dean’s face suddenly softens, and he shrinks back down. “But I’m not,” he says quietly.

For a moment, his chin trembles, and he turns away. But then he circles back around, rage set on his face again, lifts his glass, and hurls it against the wall behind Castiel with a roar.

Cas ducks, even though he’s two feet away from where Dean threw the glass. “Dean!” he yells.

He spins around to Cas, fury in his eyes. “Get out, Cas,” he says, urgent, frantic.

Castiel’s head is spinning. “Why? What did I do?”

Dean squares his shoulders, pointing at the door. “I said, GET OUT!” he shouts.

Cas doesn’t flinch. “No,” he says simply. “I will not bend to your will, Dean Winchester.”

“What do you want from me, Cas? What?” His voice breaks, and his eyes are wild with an emotion Cas can’t place. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this. You have to leave. Get out, and don’t come back.”

Dean is trembling all over, like a bomb about to explode. But Castiel is not afraid. “Why?” he asks, not matching Dean’s volume or aggression.

Dean crowds his space, and looms over him again. There’s a moment where Cas doesn’t know if Dean is going to hit him or kiss him, and he braces himself for the impact of either. Instead, he growls out through clenched teeth, eyes filled with wrath, “Leave. Now,” and turns away again.

Cas stands his ground, and finally shouts back, “WHY?”

Dean spins on his heel. “ _BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, DAMMIT._ ” He takes a step back and falls against the wall, his body slowly slumping onto the ground, burying his face in his hands, and begins to sob uncontrollably.

“Dean?” Cas immediately falls to his knees in front of him, placing his hands on Dean’s. “Dean, what happened?”

Dean roughly pulls himself away from Cas’ grasp. “Don’t touch me! I’m a monster, Cas! I destroy everything I touch!” He buries his face in his knees, wailing sobs that wrack his entire body.

Castiel has no idea what to do, or what could have possibly happened to cause Dean to react like this. “Please, Dean, tell me what happened.”

Between agonized sobs and heavy, gasping breaths, Dean only mumbles, “ _So it goes_ ,” over and over again while rocking himself back and forth.

“‘So it goes’?” Cas asks. “I’m sorry, Dean, I don’t understand.” It sounds familiar, but Cas can't place it.

“ _So it goes. So it goes. So it goes._ ”

Dean Winchester, Castiel’s very own Neal Cassady, his Monet painting, his lens to the entire human experience, has broken. He looks so small, so vulnerable. A raw nerve. A string wrapped so tight that it finally snapped. An atomic bomb that finally landed.

“ _So it goes. So it goes. So it goes._ ”

Cas spots an envelope sticking out of Dean’s pocket, and gently slides it out. If Dean notices, he doesn’t respond. He is trapped in the agony of his poor, tortured heart, which is the only hell from which Castiel cannot lift him.

He reads the letter.

“ _So it goes. So it goes. So it goes._ ”

Suddenly, it dawns on him. Castiel remembers that the phrase is from Dean’s favorite book, which Cas himself was not overly fond of, Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse-Five_.

“So it goes,” Castiel says softly, setting down the letter, and finally understanding.

Dean’s frantic wails have subsided into steady sobs, but he is still buried in himself, wrapped in a fetal position and rocking back and forth.

“She died, didn’t she?” Cas asks gently.

“Uh huh,” Dean replies, muffled and stuffy. “My fault, all my fault. Cursed. Touch of death. Kill kill kill. _So it goes. So it goes. So it goes._ ” he mumbles incoherently.

The sob that escapes him then is so broken and so raw that Cas' heart breaks, and he begins crying too. “Oh god, Dean. I’m so sorry.”

He shifts next to Dean, leaning against the wall and wraps his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Dean doesn’t jerk away, just folds himself into Cas, lets Cas comfort him, cry with him, mourn with him.

When slowly the tears subside, Castiel begins quietly singing Dean’s favorite song, the only song Cas knows by heart:

[ _Hey Jude, don't make it bad_ ](http://youtu.be/eDdI7GhZSQA)   
_Take a sad song and make it better_   
_Remember to let her into your heart_   
_Then you can start to make it better_

Near the end of the song, Dean’s body slowly relaxes and his breathing deepens. But Cas keeps singing, holding Dean, and watching the sun begin to stream into the window from behind the storm clouds which are at last dissipating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me. I promise it'll be worth it. <3
> 
> But I understand, and welcome what I predict will be your potentially distraught feedback?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Castiel can feel that electricity between them, the chemistry that has always compelled them together. It's a magnet that lures him toward Dean: physically, mentally, and spiritually. Dean is his center of gravity."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Castiel begins to pick up the broken pieces of Dean's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to destroy you worse than I already have, but I have this headcanon (squared) that Dean says, "So it goes," for every person he's lost. 
> 
> I'M SORRY, OKAY?
> 
> Not gonna lie, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENED TO THIS CHAPTER. It was gonna be one thing and then it turned into something else and I don't know what to think?

Dean wakes up only to stand slowly from his curled up position on Cas and cross to his bed, collapsing into it and rolling himself into the covers. He spends the entire day sleeping, and Cas spends the day with him, intermittently holding him, and getting up to click around on the Internet or read, dashing his eyes every few minutes from the words in front of him to Dean’s sleeping form.

At 2am, Dean wakes up with a start, gasping for breath and clutching his chest, jolting Cas from his sleep as well. He sits up and gently touches Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, are you okay?”

Dean jerks away from him and jumps up quickly yet gracefully, dragging his duffel bag from under the bed and frantically rushing through the motel to gather and shove his meager belongings into it. “We gotta go, Cas. I can’t spend another fucking second in this city.”

“All right,” Cas replies, filled with concern. He rolls off the bed to pack his belongings as well.

***

Twenty minutes later finds Dean and Cas on the highway, speeding back to the bunker.

Dean is stoic, jaw set in a firm line, eyes on the road in front of him. Cas can’t tell if there’s emptiness behind his eyes or if his mind is in a fury of agony, blaming himself for every death, every ounce of tragedy in every human life: Atlas, with the world on his shoulders.

Periodically, Castiel reaches over to put his hand on Dean’s thigh, or try to hold his hand, but every time, Dean shrugs him off, or shifts uncomfortably, until Cas finally gives up and falls asleep against the window.

He opens his eyes hours later, to the sun rising in the distance. They’re in a mostly empty parking lot, and Dean puts the Impala in park, grumbling, “Be right back." Getting roughly out of the car, he slams the door behind him.

Moments later, he gets back in the car, shoving a styrofoam container into Cas’ hands with a plastic fork and a large coffee. “Thanks,” Cas says, mildly irate at Dean’s sudden standoffishness.

Dean grunts in response.

He realizes Dean is in pain, though, so he eats his breakfast of scrambled eggs, potatoes, and toast in silence, staring at the sun steadily rising in the distance.

They hit the road again, and Castiel tries one last time to grasp Dean’s hand, if for no other reason than as a display of solidarity, a means of expressing his understanding and compassion toward Dean’s plight.

Dean shrugs his hand away after a moment to unnecessarily turn on his blinker and change lanes on a completely deserted road.

“Why won’t you let me touch you?” Cas asks, trying to mask the stern tone of his voice. Now, he realizes, is not the time to be petty, but he cannot help but feel hurt by Dean’s behavior. It doesn’t help that he still hasn’t apologized to Cas for calling him a faggot, or accusing him of sleeping with Alex, or chucking a glass in his general direction.

Dean doesn’t respond, just clutches the steering wheel a bit harder, his knuckles turning white, and clenches his jaw.

“Dean,” Cas begins. “Please talk to me. I can’t help if you don’t communicate with me.”

“I don’t need help,” he mumbles in reply, voice low.

Cas gives up, and rests his head against the window again in hopes to fall asleep the rest of the way home.

After a few minutes, Dean asks, “You were reading ‘No Exit,’ right? By Sartre? That night we, you know… fought or whatever.”

“Yes,” Cas replies coolly, not opening his eyes.

“Have you read his novel _Nausea_ yet?”

“No.”

Dean clears his throat. “Well, it was kind of over my head, but basically it’s about this guy, who is a total douchebag, whining about everything under the sun for pages and pages and pages. And he has a lot of sex, and he writes, and he mopes.”

“Sounds as engaging as I’m sure _The Awakening_ is,” Cas mumbles under his breath.

“Hey, don’t knock Chopin until you read it. Anyway, yeah, it was fucking boring as hell. But this guy gets really nauseous whenever he touches something. Bends down to pick up a piece of paper. Anything. Like it’s this sickness in him. It just destroys him.”

Castiel sighs. “Are you trying to say that touching me nauseates you?”

“No, I’m not. Just listen. My point is _why_ it nauseates him. He hates touching anything, interacting with anything, because he’s really aware that he can _affect_ it. He knows that if he can affect something in the world, he is capable of affecting the world itself. And he just can’t handle that. He can’t stand the thought of existing, of being more than an observer of his own environment.”

Lifting his head from the window, he looks toward Dean, brow furrowed in an attempt to apply Dean’s words to this situation. Skeptically, he infers, “You panic when you touch me because you are acutely aware of your ability to affect me, to hurt me. And touch is a physical manifestation of your fear.”

Dean blinks. “Yeah, that… that pretty much hits the nail on the head.”

Nodding, Cas concludes, “Fair enough. I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” He leans his head back against the window and closes his eyes.

After a moment, Dean asks, “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

He hesitates. “Thank you. And… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

***

When they get back to the bunker, Cas has no choice but to give Dean his space. It pains him to see his… whatever Dean is to him now… moping around the bunker, rereading the same books he’s already read a hundred times, rewatching all his favorite movies, eating all of his favorite foods over and over and over. He’s _nesting_ , choosing to remain stagnant in the face of tragedy instead of barrelling through it like the Dean Winchester he’s used to.

Castiel then realizes that they haven’t heard from Sam in over a week. He wonders if he should be concerned, or if Sam has just been corresponding with Dean and Dean hasn’t mentioned anything to Cas about it.

He decides to let it slide. The relationship between Dean and Sam recently has been strained, to say the least, so maybe it’s best that they take mutually agreed upon time away from one another.

After several days of feeling again like he and Dean are occupying the same space on two different planes of reality-- like the drive home from Ohio that felt like forever ago-- Castiel hears his phone beep on his nightstand. It’s late, and he doesn’t know why anyone would be texting him at this hour.

It’s Dean.

_D: You awake?_

_C: Yes._

_D: Why?_

_C: Reading. Why are you?_

_D: Can’t sleep. Haven’t slept for days._

_C: I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like me to join you?_

A few minutes pass before the next reply.

_D: Yes._

***

Castiel enters Dean’s room quietly even though he knows he’s not asleep. The room is dark, and Dean is on his side, on top of the covers, facing away from him. And, Castiel notes, completely naked.

Cas climbs into bed behind him, clad only in flannel pajama pants.

Dean rolls over onto his back and puts his arm under his head, looking at Cas for the first time in what feels like years.

Castiel can feel that electricity between them, the chemistry that has always compelled them together. It's a magnet that lures him toward Dean: physically, mentally, and spiritually. Dean is his center of gravity.

Though it takes a phenomenal amount of willpower not to, Castiel refrains from reaching out and touching Dean, allowing a foot of space between them. They lay together in silence for several minutes, until Castiel has an idea, based on a book he read about hypnotism. He wonders if it would help. “Dean?”

“Yeah?” he replies in a low voice.

Cas hesitates, and asks slowly, cautiously, “Johnny Cash?”

He hears Dean take a sharp breath. “Cas, I can’t--”

“Touch,” Cas concludes. “I know. But… I won't. Do you trust me?”

Dean is silent for a moment, and replies, “Johnny Cash.”

“I want you to close your eyes,” Cas begins, “and listen to my voice.” He pauses, planning out what he wants to do. “Put your hands at your sides, and take a deep breath.”

Dean complies, though warily.

“I want you to relax,” he continues, gaining confidence. He speaks slowly and evenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Focus on your breath. Put your mind in your center, at your navel, and imagine a sphere that expands when you inhale, and detracts when you exhale. Focus on that sphere, on your breath. It’s okay if your mind wanders, but if you notice it, note it, and bring your mind back to the center, back to the sphere.”

He waits while Dean slowly inhales and exhales a dozen times.

“Feel the weight of your body, the pull of it downward. Imagine sinking further into the bed, your body suddenly heavier. Take a moment to let all the tension ease out of your hands.” He pauses and counts two breaths. “Now I want you to imagine looking down a stairwell. It’s steep, and at the bottom of it is a warm light. There are ten steps. You want to meet that warm light, go into that room and find out what’s in it. Now I want you to take a moment to let all the tension ease out of your arms, all the way up to your shoulders. Feel them getting heavier, so heavy they can’t move. And I want you to imagine yourself sinking down to the second step toward the warm glow of the room below you.”

And so Cas continues, urging Dean step by step down the stairwell while relaxing each part of his body. After many minutes, Dean is breathing deeply and evenly, though not enough to be asleep. His mind is vulnerable, pliable, and Cas wants to help Dean relax.

“When you’re ready to look into the room, let me know by placing a hand on your stomach.”

Dean waits a few moments before slowly dragging his hand to rest on his abdomen.

“When I snap my fingers," Cas continues, "you’re going to go from feeling heavy to weightless. When I ask you a question, you will not hesitate to answer truthfully. When I give you a direction, you will not hesitate to comply. If your mind begins to wander, always bring it back to the sphere. When I snap my fingers a second time, you’re going to fall into a deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep, of which you will not wake up again until late tomorrow morning. While you are under, you will be completely aware of your actions and you will be able to remember them tomorrow. If at any point you become uncomfortable with what is happening, you will be able to regain control of yourself immediately and state the safeword. If you understand and wish to proceed, please place your other hand on your abdomen.”

Dean drags his other hand to rest on the first on his stomach.

Cas snaps his fingers, and Dean’s body jolts, his spine straighter, body gracefully poised on the bed, as though he is really weightless. “You open the door. The warm light surrounds you, lifts you. You walk into the room, welcoming whatever is inside, and whatever is inside welcomes you too. What do you see in the room?”

Dean’s lips, which were parted, now close into a straight line, and his brow furrows in innocent confusion. “You,” he replies with little more than a rumble of his throat.

Cas? This is unexpected, but Castiel urges him on. “What am I doing?”

“Bed,” Dean replies, his mouth twisting up into a small smile. “Naked.”

“Why am I naked?”

“Hot.”

Castiel grins at that. “What would you like to do with me while I’m naked?”

“Touch,” he mumbles, and continues after a moment, “Kiss,” then, “Sex.”

He knows he’s pushing his luck with Dean’s unconscious mind, forcing it to contemplate abstraction, but tries anyway, “Why?”

Smiling widely, Dean replies, “Love you.”

Something snaps in Cas’ heart, releasing a thousand butterflies into his stomach. He gulps, and proceeds. “I want you to let go of the sphere and let your mind play out what you want to do with me while still following my commands. Nod your head if you can do that.”

Dean nods.

Cas takes a deep breath. “Take your hands and put them on your body where you would want mine to go.”

Dean takes his arm and trails his hands slowly over his hips, and up his torso, moving one hand into his hair and tangling it in his fingers, pulling slightly, while taking his other hand and letting a thumb flick over his nipple. He turns his head and exposes his neck, hissing inward through his teeth. Releasing his hair, he moves his hands down to pinch both his nipples and bites his bottom lip, exhaling a small moan. His dick starts to rise, and he lowers his hands to his hips, brushes his pelvic bone lightly with his fingertips, and rakes them up and down the tops of his thighs, eventually clawing them up and down his sides.

Castiel, though not surprised, is still incredibly aroused by the openness Dean is displaying.

“I want you to continue touching yourself the way you see me touching you, doing your best to interpret my actions and acting them out on yourself.”

Dean brings his hand up and pinches his bottom lip, rubbing it between his fingers and gently pulling on it. He moves his hand to the side of his face and up into his hair, while his other hand lightly strokes his now throbbing cock, letting his fingertips and then knuckles graze it up and down, while it hops up into his hand at the appreciation of his touch.

He opens his mouth and slowly slips two of his fingers in, rolling his tongue around them and moaning slightly, shoving them further down, teasing them, licking them up and down and placing gentle kisses on them before shoving them back into his throat with a groan. Meanwhile, with his other hand, he grasps his cock completely and starts slowly jerking himself in long pulls, covering his hand in precum and sliding it back down his shaft.

Cas reaches down his pants to begin doing the same.

Dean, whose fingers are now coated in spit, lifts his legs and trails his hand down between them, cupping his balls momentarily before reaching behind and circling his own entrance.

When he slowly enters himself, he gasps, and pushes in further, steadily moving his finger in and out of himself while keeping pace with the pulls on his dick. He pushes in a second finger and his back arcs in pleasure, his hands quickening as he impatiently stretches himself open, spreading his legs open wider and panting with each motion.

Castiel has to bite his hand to keep from touching Dean, because he promised he wouldn’t. So he watches furiously stroking his own cock at the same pace as Dean.

Dean adds a third finger and is now moaning loudly, panting and groaning out a quiet, “Cas,” between breaths. His muscles tense as he furiously thrusts into himself, and he loses rhythm on his own cock. He’s close now.

“You may only come on my command,” Cas adds, voice husky and wrecked.

Dean keeps fucking himself with his hands, every muscle in his body tensed and poised at the brink. His hips are lifted off of the bed completely and his face is contorted in pleasure and need. He pumps furiously, hips bucking into one hand and onto another. He starts whimpering and gasping, losing control of himself.

Castiel is close too, and the moment before he peaks, he gasps out, “Come for me, Dean. I want to see you come.”

Dean releases with a shout of Cas’ name, back arching entirely off of the bed while white streaks coat his stomach, chest, and neck. Castiel comes immediately thereafter, moaning loudly onto his knuckles which are between his teeth.

He catches his breath while Dean does the same, smiling and lifting his hand up to pinch his lip again, and place gentle kisses on his wrist. He huffs a laugh and grins, and Cas wishes he knew what his mind-Castiel said or did to make him do that. Then he takes the pillow that’s under his head and rolls over onto his side, cradling it in his arms.

Castiel takes one last look at Dean’s happy, relaxed form, and snaps his fingers a second time.

Dean’s breath immediately deepens, and Cas slides off the bed to clean himself up and go back to his own room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, folks. AGAIN, this chapter and the next were supposed to be one, but I had to make them two.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is Castiel stripping."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Cas learns how to express himself to Dean, and Dean learns how to let Cas under his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea, man. You have no fucking idea what this chapter did to me. Has been doing to me the entire time I've been writing this fic, welling up in my head until it finally burst out into whatever the hell this even is.
> 
> "O Divinity" is written by me circa early 2013. End notes explain a little more.

Dean wakes up the next morning feeling warm and happy and… crusty. He rolls over, peeling the pillow which he had been holding to his chest off of his stomach, and feeling a strangely familiar discomfort in the region of his backside.

He lays on his back, and it takes him no fewer than ten minutes of sleepy-yet-stern concentration to figure out what the _fuck_ happened to him last night.

Texted Cas: check. Asked Cas to come to bed with him: check. Cas gave him the go word: check. Dean said yes, but no touching: check. Cas made him relax with his soothing, gravelly, deep, sexy voice: check. Cas mounted him and fucked him into oblivion on a fluffy, white, king-size bed in a beachside condo: ...check?

It couldn’t have been a dream, Dean thinks, because he’s never sleep-fucked himself before. He knows Cas wouldn’t have laid a finger on him. And Cas doesn’t have angelic powers anymore to have implanted that dream in his head--

“Holy fucking Christ,” Dean says aloud to himself, remembering Cas telling him to open the door at the bottom of a staircase. “That motherfucker _hypnotised me_.”

At first, Dean has no idea how he should feel about the fact he behaved on behalf of someone else’s will beyond his own control.

Then he concludes, “That is so _fucking hot_.”

***

Dean hops out of bed, showers, and makes a big breakfast for himself while whistling Cash’s “I Walk the Line,” feeling better than he has in days. A weight has been lifted from his shoulders and he has no idea why. Nothing is different about today. His mentor is still dead; he still gets a tight knot of anxiety in his stomach whenever he thinks about touching Cas; and, as of yesterday afternoon, Sam has officially passed by his two-weeks-of-no-contact-mandatory-check-in that the Winchester men have employed for decades.

But somehow, for no goddamn reason, it just all seems more manageable than usual, like the edges of his perception are soft, instead of the sharp, jagged reality he usually lives within.

He flips his pancakes with finesse, tossing them into the air behind his back and catching them with his plate. When he sits down to open up his laptop, he notices a post-it note on top of it.

It says, in Castiel’s small, neat handwriting:

_Meet me at The Emerald at 8pm. There will be a table with your name on it. -C_

A mix of worry and excitement flood Dean’s gut. He didn’t think Cas was one for surprises, because he simply didn’t understand the function of them, in much the way he didn’t understand why the entire month of December is, as he said, “devoted to obligatory gift-giving.”

For a moment, remembering that The Emerald is a male strip club, Dean wonders if Castiel is going to surprise him with a public striptease like Dean surprised him last weekend. Then Dean realizes he would be totally okay if that ends up being the outcome of this evening.

Dean really has no idea what to expect, so he digs into his pancakes and enjoys his day of enigmatic contentment.

***

Dean walks to The Emerald a few minutes earlier than he has to. When he gets to the door, he sees a billboard with a big banner across it that says “Tonight’s Event” in red, glittery letters. Below it is a small pink poster with a cartoon microphone on it that reads:

_SUNDAY_   
_Open Mic Night_   
_Let Ruby Red take you on a wild ride tonight as she invites her hand-selected Special Guests up on stage!_

Dean takes a deep, steadying breath, and walks inside.

For a Sunday evening open mic night, the place is busier than Dean expected. There are a few dozen bistro tables situated around a modest stage, and most of them are filled with the kind of people Dean sees at Starbucks.

Not that he goes to Starbucks or anything.

The Emerald is no Saloon in terms of grandeur, but based on Dean’s knowledge of the stripper circuit, which is vast, it’s one of the nicer clubs he’s seen.

He immediately spots an empty table directly in front of the center of the stage with a small placard that says, “Reserved for The Cowboy.”

Dean picks it up while mumbling, “Ha ha, very funny,” and tossing it back on the table.

Either an effeminate man or a masculine woman approaches his table and asks him what he would like to drink. His name tag says “Brett.”

Dean orders a beer, and when the server turns to walk away, Dean stops him, adding, “Actually, make that a cosmo instead. Thanks.”

Brett grins a little too knowingly and goes to the bar to make Dean’s drink.

At 8 on the dot, the curtain rises and a large black man dressed as a diva strides on stage. She’s wearing a sparkly red pantsuit with massive, pointed shoulder pads, and a bright blond wig set in a tall beehive atop her head. Her lipstick, nail polish, and eyeshadow all match the same glittery red of her pant suit.

She gets to the front of the stage and pops her hip out to the side, making a grandiose gesture with her other hand, then grabs the mic. “Good evening, all you scrumptious little love muffins. I am Ruby Red, queen of The Emerald, and I welcome you to tonight’s _very special_ mic night!”

The crowd claps, and Ruby grins down at her audience.

Brett returns with Dean’s cosmopolitan. He nods a thanks and takes a sip, furrowing his brow and making an “mmm” noise unconsciously while thinking, _damn that’s good_.

“You may remember our first presenter tonight,” Ruby Red continues, “as our Special Guest from last weekend, but tonight he is without his Jade Tricks, here to charm us all on his own. Please give it up for Innocent Castiel!”

The crowd cheers a little louder than before, and Castiel walks across the stage. Before he makes it to the mic, Ruby Red pulls him into a big hug and whispers something in his ear before quickly gliding away.

Castiel, Dean notes, is wearing an outfit he has never seen before. That is to say, none of it is Dean’s, which is odd, because a Venn diagram of their wardrobes is pretty much a circle.

He’s wearing his usual black dress shoes, with dark-wash skinny jeans, a form-fitting white v-neck t-shirt, and a yellow-checkered flannel overshirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair looks like it always does, but Dean is close enough that he can tell there’s product in it, making it look intentionally messy instead of the just-had-sex-hair Cas just naturally, kind of… has.

And glasses. Castiel, whose vision not six months prior went beyond the physical realm, is wearing glasses.

And he is really fucking hot.

Cas sets two books down on the barstool next to him and lowers the mic so that it’s in front of his mouth.

For a moment, he scans the audience, eyes finally landing on Dean, and smiles. Then he picks up one of the books on the stool and opens it, clearing his throat.

“Good evening,” Cas begins. “My name is Castiel Winchester, and Ruby Red has graciously allowed me to share some poetry with you this evening.” He shifts anxiously, and clears his throat again. “The first piece I’d like to read is an excerpt from Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl,’ followed by one of my own works. But before I begin, I would like to dedicate this reading to someone very special to me.” He pauses, thinking. “This is the man who taught me how to express myself by showing me his own expression. He is my Atlas, my Monet painting, my very own Neal Cassady.” Castiel looks down at his feet for a moment, shuffling them, and lowers his voice slightly. “While I will not be reading part 3 of ‘Howl,’ I would like to recite a line from it that I feel summarizes our relationship in full:

_“‘I’m with you in Rockland, where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter.’”_

Cas opens his mouth to speak, before closing it again, taking off his glasses, and setting them on the stool. He opens the book wide and begins: “‘Howl,’ by Allen Ginsberg.

_“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,_   
_dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,_   
_angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…”_

Dean’s jaw is hanging loose. Out of all the things running through his mind that could have happened tonight, this was not one of them.

Near the middle of the poem, Castiel stops, and stares up from his book and directly into Dean’s eyes, while speaking the next line of the poem gently, caressing every word:

_“Who went whoring through Colorado in the myriad of stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too…”_

It is an intoxicating sight to behold, and the imagery of a world neither of them could ever really know-- yet has somehow managed to connect them-- floods Dean’s mind as Castiel speaks.

When the poem ends, everyone claps, and Cas solemnly thanks the audience. When the applause subsides, he continues. “This next work is one of my own, a prose poem entitled ‘O Divinity.’ I wrote it in a fit of anger, and while it does not reflect my present, I still feel it is an accurate depiction of my past.

_“Heavy things need lifted like the hearts of the suffering, the everyman, the everyone, everyone, always, in life, The Suffering. The tragedy of the trajectory, the bullets in the minds of the crying the crucifix the Jesus Holy Lord Almighty: love us lead us loathe us leave us. Alone. We will all die alone and none of us will ever understand one another. Not truly. Not ever. And thus our hearts are heavy with the dead weight of our empty souls.”_

Dean finally understands. He understands everything. His first instinct about tonight was not incorrect.

This is Castiel stripping.

_“Your earlobes haunt my nightmares (the button of your undoing) and the intensity of your eyes creates them. Pleasure in your company is torture on our best days so do not tell me my presence is pleasant because I’d like to comb my nails down your back till you bleed. Beg for mercy, O Divinity, because Hell hath captivated you with Her sundry stack of salacious mercenaries, soldiers of the sexual sensual manipulative divide. Your purity is worth a thousand words that I will choke back with my own lips.”_

He is uncloaking his heart for the entire world. Exposing himself, his pain, his weaknesses. For Dean. To show Dean that he should not be afraid of touch because they are already, and forever will be, bound together.

_“You are nothing if not cruel, and your cruelty lies in the mechanics of your cold heart, metallic clockwork clicking ticking clicking clocking mocking me, making me, taking me. Take me. For I am ripe for the picking, the clicking of stilettos that I will never wear, for my feet themselves are worn, weary with walking through the desert of dismal dismay, the unyielding ground to which we are bound in and by our sad, cold blood.”_

He has never seen Castiel like he is at this moment. He is not the tax accountant, stodgy ex-angel Dean spends every waking hour with, who forgets sometimes to use hand gestures and voice inflection and facial expressions, nor is he the badass mercenary angel who led an army in heaven, nor is he the man Dean saw panic in the parking lot of a bar at the thought of having sex for the first time.

None of those things were Castiel, none of them were really truly him. Because the true him, the being Dean loves with every inch of himself, is the one in front of him right now, running through his performance with an intense fervor, voice cracking with sadness and then steadying again, between teeth clenched in fury, spitting out the angry words, and gently breathing around the peaceful ones. It’s chaotic, it’s prolific, it’s everything Castiel has ever been wrapped up on stage right in front of Dean’s very eyes.

_“The straw that broke this pack rat’s back was in fact a thing of suffering, a snip snap stop of the line of life between me and mine. Blood and love and intoxication of sensory input. Your touch heals all wounds, but your absence makes a heavy heart an anchor to this Hell. The disabled the disobedient the disgusted all rolled into one rolling down Xenia Avenue, but the grime of the streets can’t compare to the grime of my mind, the muck stuck sticking to my ribs like the cage of my eternity. And I can’t climb out.”_

At that moment, Dean knows what it is to grok something in full.

Because this is the exact moment he finally understands that he and Castiel share the exact same soul.

When the poem ends, Cas sets down his notebook and looks back up to a standing ovation. The crowd is cheering for him, and he looks alarmed at the response, like he just remembered there were other people in the room with him.

Dean is standing too, but he doesn’t clap. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s crossing in front of his table and hopping on stage in one swift motion.

Suddenly he's standing in front of Cas, and Dean takes him by the shoulders.

Cas is wide-eyed, lips barely parted in surprise, breath caught in his chest, blue eyes boring into green ones.

They’re inches apart and Dean searches his face, frantic, asking, “May I kiss you now?”

Castiel’s face softens and lights up, a laugh balanced precariously on his lips which turn upward into a sly grin. “A bet’s a bet.”

That’s all Dean needs before closing the distance between them and finally, beautifully pressing their lips together in a fury of passion.

These are the moments where people think of fireworks, but to Dean, kissing Castiel is much more than fireworks. It’s more than an atomic bomb. It’s more than an erupting volcano. It’s more than a supernova. Kissing Castiel is the Big Bang itself. It’s the first moment and the last. It is every moment of time combined into that one instant when their lips meet.

Cas’ hands are in Dean’s hair and Dean’s are wrapped around Castiel, pulling him in closer, their bodies flush, never wanting to be apart again. There is not enough of Castiel for Dean to consume, and it’s too much at the same time. He’s drowning in Cas, drowning in his love, in his acceptance, in his infinite heart which at this moment is beating in tandem with his own.

Somewhere in the distance, in a world that at this moment does not even exist, Dean hears a familiar song begin to play.

_Hey Jude, don’t make it bad…_

At last remembering they’re in front of an audience, Dean reluctantly pulls away from Cas, who looks simultaneously euphoric and positively wrecked.

Dean gazes out at the onlookers, who are all staring at them with interest.

_Hey Jude, don't be afraid_   
_You were made to go out and get her_   
_The minute you let her under your skin_   
_Then you begin to make it better_

Finally, after almost a decade, something snaps in Dean. He takes out that last dusty box labeled ‘dancer,’ and puts the contents on the shelves of his identity along with all those other pieces of himself that are purely him. And he is standing next to Castiel, who is part of his identity too, and part of his heart, and all of his soul.

_And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain_   
_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders_   
_For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool_   
_By making his world a little colder_

So Dean holds out his hand to Castiel, who takes it, hesitant, and Dean pulls him in, hand at the small of his back, other hand lifting Cas’ up. Castiel places his other hand on Dean’s shoulder and smiles, and they begin to dance.

_Hey Jude, don't let me down_   
_You have found her, now go and get her_   
_Remember to let her into your heart_   
_Then you can start to make it better_

Dean leads Castiel around the stage, spins him, dips him, lifts him-- laughing-- and spins him some more.

_So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin_   
_You're waiting for someone to perform with_   
_And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do_   
_The movement you need is on your shoulder_

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_   
_Take a sad song and make it better_   
_Remember to let her under your skin_   
_Then you'll begin to make it_   
_Better better better better better better, oh_

After several minutes of nirvana, staring into Castiel's smiling face and whisking him gracefully around the stage, the music stops abruptly. They stop dancing to look up at the audience, all of whom are standing, holding up lighters and cell phones and glow sticks, swaying them to the beat.

Without music, the audience continues singing. For Dean. For Cas. For love itself.

_Nah nah nah nah-nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, hey Jude_   
_Nah nah nah nah-nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, hey Jude..._

Dean looks over to Cas standing next to him, arm around his waist and covering his mouth with his hand in awe. There are tears welling up in his eyes.

Leaning in, Dean squeezes Cas closer to him and whispers in his ear, “I love you, Cas.”

Castiel looks up at him, tears now streaming down his face, and whispers back, voice breaking, “I love you too, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. "O Divinity" and why I decided to put it in here: in short, I wanted Cas to read some Ginsberg as a symbol, but I also wanted him to be able to read something no one has ever heard before. "O Divinity," like "Howl," is meant to be read aloud, though I have never performed it but to myself. Stream of consciousness prose poetry, as well as memoir, are my default genres. I don't usually dabble in fiction, though this fic has been a very enlightening experience.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. There's more to come yet, but now that I have this chapter out of the way, I don't think I'm going to post tomorrow. So the next chapter will be up in a couple days. 
> 
> If you'd like to read something else I've written in my short absence, I just finished a little Caslock fic that's been on the backburner forever called ["The Side of the Angels."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/764313/chapters/1431400) If you don't like Caslock, remember that you dug my OT3 a few chapters ago, so you might like this too if you're in the Superlock fandom. It's pretty funny and kinda hot.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean's first full thought upon entering consciousness again is the unfortunate realization that if he had a nickel for every goddamn time he got knocked out and woke up tied to a chair, he’d be able to afford that beachside condo of his imagination where Cas fucked him into oblivion.
> 
> But he doesn’t, so he slowly opens his eyes to deal with whatever the motherfucking fuck is happening."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein we bring it back around to canon. Sort of. Okay not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: gay bullying, excessive violence.
> 
> Wow. I am utterly floored at the feedback I got on my poem in the last chapter. I'm stunned. There is not an adequate array of words in the English language to properly emphasize to you the extent of my gratitude and appreciation. 
> 
> Because of that, I come bearing gifts tonight.
> 
> As requested, here is the first and only recording of ["O Divinity."](https://soundcloud.com/sad-robots/o-divinity)

As soon as Dean and Cas walk backstage, Dean pushes Cas against the rough brick wall of the hallway leading to the back door of the club. He crushes their mouths together, presses their bodies together, and pulls up Cas' shirts to feel the smooth, taut muscles of his back. He drags his fingernails down and Cas breaks away from him, gasping.

Suddenly the two blocks to the bunker seem too far away. Dean needs Cas _right now_. He needs to feel every inch of him right this second or he’s going to explode. His heart is filled with nothing but raw longing, like whatever was inside of him didn’t just escape the broom closet of his mind, but kicked down the whole goddamn door.

Dean lines up their cocks and thrusts onto Cas, who has his fingers tangled in Dean’s hair and then down to his neck and then back up again to his face. Dean trails his hands up Castiel’s arms and entwines their fingers together, then shoves them roughly above Cas' head and presses them against the wall so that Cas is trapped, immobile, as Dean ruts against him with wanton abandon.

They stop kissing and begin breathing against each other’s necks while Cas tries to stifle his moans. Dean is panting into Cas’ throat, biting and sucking and licking every pretty piece of flesh at his disposal.

Trapped in their passion, neither of them register the dozen or so footsteps they hear down the hall quickly approaching.

It’s only when Dean reaches down to unbutton Cas’ jeans, clutching both of Cas' wrists against the wall with one of his hands, and unzips his fly does he notice for a split second the sudden look of alarm on Castiel’s face as he stares at something behind Dean.

“De--” is all the warning Cas gives him before a crushing blow from behind knocks Dean out cold.

***

When Dean comes to, all he registers is that he is freezing.

Literally.

And he can’t move.

Dean's first full thought upon entering consciousness again is the unfortunate realization that if he had a nickel for every goddamn time he got knocked out and woke up tied to a chair, he’d be able to afford that beachside condo of his imagination where Cas fucked him into oblivion.

But he doesn’t, so he slowly opens his eyes to deal with whatever the motherfucking _fuck_ is happening.

His head is in searing pain, and there’s a gash in it that’s leaking blood down the side of his face. He lifts his eyes and looks around.

There are two halves of a dead, skinned cow hanging in front of him.

“Fuckin’ meat lockers, man,” he mumbles, still woozy.

“Dean?!” says a voice somewhere close behind him.

“Sammy?!”

Irate, Sam asks, “What the _fuck_ took you so long?”

In his head, Dean can see the bitchface Sam is making as he says this. “Oh I don’t know, you stormed off in a huff of homo-fuckin’-phobia and I figured you were outta the game for a bit. How the fuck was I supposed to know you needed rescuing, you damsel in distress piece of shit?”

“You’re talking to _me_ about homophobia? You have a fucking PhD in gay panic, you _ass_. I got ganked like a week ago. I missed my check-in time, man! That’s code red!”

Dean sighs. “Can we just work on getting the hell outta here? Where’s Cas?”

“He’s not at the bunker?” Sam asks.

A knot of worry sinks into Dean's stomach. “They didn’t bring him in here with me?” He looks around the room, what little he can see of it in the dimness. “Cas? You in here, buddy?”

No response. “Shit. So what do you know so far?” Dean asks.

“Well," Sam begins casually. "It appears as though our arms and legs are strapped to chairs and we are slowly freezing to death in a meat locker."

“No fuckin’ duh, dude. Get to the part I want to hear.”

Sam hesitates.

“Spit it out, man.”

“I may have led them here. Accidentally.”

“Led who here?”

“That vampire den I was tracking in Indianapolis?”

Dean looks up at the ceiling and lets out an exasperated moan. “Are you fucking serious? How did you lead a whole group of vampires back to the bunker? They can’t travel during the day!”

“That’s how they managed to follow me! I don’t know, man, the daytime doesn’t affect them or something.”

Dean puts it all together without needing any more information because he has done this shit for too many damn years: Sam slaughters a group of ‘roided-up vamps, doesn’t manage to kill all of them, the remaining members are super pissed, they follow Sam back to the bunker, Sam doesn’t notice anyone is following him because was probably listening to his shitty pop music too fucking loud to pay attention to shit, Sam gets home to find no one there because Dean and Cas were in Dallas, vampires hijack Sam, break into the bunker, find Cas’ note telling Dean to meet him at The Emerald, and then the vampires gank Dean and Cas just as they’re about to get their groove on.

Dean relays as much to Sam, who says, “One: did you seriously just say, ‘Get your groove on’? Two: fucking _finally_. If I had to be around you two another goddamn day while you make longing, lust-filled googly eyes at one another, I would have shot myself. And three: Dallas, Dean? Really? Don’t tell me you went back to--”

“No!” Dean interrupts. “Well, yeah, but it was only one night and… you know what, nevermind, it’s a long story.”

Dean realizes that this is where Cas would say, _“It’s not like we have anything better to do,”_ and it gives him another sharp pang of worry in his chest.

But Sam is definitely not Cas, so he says, “Good, I don’t want to hear it. Can you make it out of your ropes?”

Dean fidgets and pulls at them, twisting his wrists. The existing rope burn from last week stings like a bitch, but these appear to be some kinda Katarina-level knots, so he’s totally fucked.

Just as he’s about to give it another go, the broad, silver door of the meat locker opens and in walks an enormous man, almost seven feet tall, and morbidly obese.

He chuckles at the way Dean squirms. “Good evening, gentlemen. And how are we on this fine night?”

Sam spits out through clenched teeth, “Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

The man laughs heartily, throwing his head back. “The great Winchester brothers! Oooh, I’m so scared." He picks up a meat cleaver from a shelf and chucks it into one of the slabs of meat. It sticks. "This was pathetic. I expected so much more out of you.” He paces around them in a broad circle, stopping at the same slab of meat to push it forward and back, swinging it absently. “Most vampires will do anything for the chance at sun again. Also pathetic. Taking a shot at capturing the Winchesters, and then losing a third of their den, all for the sake of light. Idiot little moths. We few esteemed vampires who have made it past our infancy much prefer solitude and darkness.”

Footsteps continue behind Dean, then stop.

Sam groans, and in his head, Dean can see him roll his eyes. “Will you please just get whatever the fuck you're gonna do over with?”

With an offended huff, the man replies, “Crowley will be here shortly to collect you. In the meantime, I feel I deserve a snack for my efforts in organizing your capture.”

Dean was wrong. This is a Crowley operation. Of course.

There’s a moment of silence before Sam is screaming in pain, and Dean can hear gurgling, slurping noises right behind his head. “Sam?! Sammy!” Dean pulls at his ropes furiously. “Get off of him, you son of a bitch!”

The gurgling and slurping finally stops, and the man circles back around to Dean, wiping the blood off of his face with the back of his hand.

“Sammy?!” Dean shouts.

No response.

“Sam!” Dean shoves and twists and pulls and pushes, frantic, at his bindings.

The vampire circles around to Dean and leans down, inches from his face. “And you, you’re not as scary as Crowley made you out to be, hanging all over that pitiful little fallen angel. Back when I was a human, you would have gotten killed for that.” He leans in so close, Dean can smell his rancid breath mixed with the copper of Sam’s blood on his face. He continues, whispering, “You’re just a fairy fucking faggot who takes it up the ass, aren’t you?”

Dean spits in his face.

The man stands up, takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and dabs it off.

“I swear to god,” Dean begins. “If you call me a fucking faggot again...” Dean thinks back to when he called Cas a faggot not even a week ago. God, he forgot how much it hurt, that phrase. It’s like someone reaching into you and taking out one of your favorite parts of yourself, one of the things that makes you happiest, then tossing it on the ground, and stomping all over it. Dean doesn’t give a rat’s ass what this dickbag thinks of him, but it reminds him that not everywhere is filled with the same amount of openness as The Emerald, and if he and Cas make it out of this alive, they’re going to have to face the figurative demons of society.

But first thing’s first: making it out of this alive at all.

The man laughs. “You’ll what? Dance at me? Throw glitter on me? Attack me with your army of transvestites?”

Dean stares into his eyes and grins mischievously.

“What?” the vampire asks, dabbing at his multitude of chins to wipe the blood out from between the creases.

Dean huffs a laugh. “You know who really hates ‘fucking faggots’?” He pauses for effect. “Closet fags.”

Chuckling, the man asks, “Who, me? That’s absurd--”

“I see the way you look at me,” Dean interrupts. “You come in here, staring at my lips and crotch like I’m a little bit more than your after-third-dinner snack.”

If the man had blood coursing through his veins, he would have blushed. He stammers, “Qu-quiet!”

Dean continues, “And you know what? You’re right. I _love_ taking it up the ass. There is no better feeling in the world than being bent over, spread open around three fingers, and fucked, completely filled, pounding against that sweet spot until you can’t even see straight--”

“ENOUGH!” the vampire roars, then lifts his arm to backhand Dean across the face.

Dean’s head whips around with the impact, but he brings it back up and grins again, “Have you ever sucked a dick, vampire? Had a cock so far down your throat you almost choked? Ever been on your knees while a dude jacks off all over your face? How about sucking a guy off while taking it from behind at the same time? I’ve done that, man, and it’s _fucking amazing_.”

“I SAID,” the man bellows, yanking the meat cleaver from the slab of meat, and lifting it above his head, “EN--”

There’s a loud _thunk!_ and the man falls to the ground.

Castiel is standing behind the man’s hunched over form, breathless, clutching his side, and holding a large meat tenderizer that is now covered in blood above his head.

“Cas?!” Dean exclaims.

“Dean,” Cas grumbles in pain, then falls to his knees next to Dean to untie his ropes.

When he gets one hand free, Dean reaches up, touches Cas’ face gently and brings him in for a quick kiss. “Where did they take you?”

Cas quickly stands and moves around Dean to untie the other knot. “I don’t know. We’re in a slaughterhouse. On Fifth Street, I think. Which is coincidental for a number of--”

Before he can finish untying the knot, the vampire leaps back up in a feat of grace that should be impossible for a 400lb man, face covered in blood, skull half smashed in. In a fury, he lifts Cas from his kneeling position and throws him across the small room.

“ _CAS!_ ” Dean screams.

The man stomps over to Cas, and lifts him up from his slumped over position. “You pathetic little cocksucking fairy faggot…”

Cas’ eyes are drooping and he tries to open them but keeps falling in and out of consciousness, completely unable to defend himself.

Dean quickly unties his legs with one hand, then throws himself off of the chair, almost breaking his arm in the process, and kneels down to untie the last knot on his other arm.

The man has Castiel against the wall, crushing his face against his giant fist repeatedly.

Dean finally frees himself, picks up the dropped meat cleaver, and runs over to the vampire beating the shit out of Castiel.

He lifts the cleaver above his head and shouts, “THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND, YOU HOMOPHOBIC BAG OF DICKS,” then brings the cleaver swiftly across the vampire’s neck, decapitating him in one blow.

The man's body drops, his head rolls the opposite direction, and Castiel sinks back down to the ground, unconscious.

Dean drops to his knees in front of Cas, grabbing his face in his hands. “Cas? C’mon man, wake up, we gotta get out of here.” The side of his face is badly bruised, and now that Dean is close, he can see a growing pool of blood on his abdomen.

Cas comes to, and mumbles, “Dean?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me. I’m here.” Dean leans forward to kiss him, thrilled he’s not brain damaged or dead, then pulls away. “Think you can stand? We gotta make a run for it. Who knows how many other vamps we got on our asses.”

Using the cold wall as support, Cas pushes himself off the ground.

“Stay right here,” Dean instructs.

He runs over to Sam and unties him. “Sam? C’mon Samantha, nap time is over, time to go home.”

No response.

Dean can see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, so he stands up, raises his arm, and backhands Sam across the face.

Sam wakes up with a start and rubs his cheek, “What the _fuck_ , dude?”

“C’mon,” Dean urges, “We gotta get the fuck outta dodge.”

Sam stands, and stumbles to the door, while Dean goes to Cas and wraps his arm around his waist, putting his arm across Dean’s shoulders. “Just try to take a few steps, baby, lean on me, c'mon, keep walking.” Dean leads him out of the room and adds, “That’s right, you got it. Just like dancing. Just let me lead, okay? Just like before.”

Castiel, barely conscious, hanging onto Dean, stumbles out the door of the meat locker.

The three of them move as fast as they can to the nearest exit, down a long, dark corridor.

Sam is steadying himself with his hand to the wall, but he pulls out his gun from the small of his back and holds it at his side.

They make it to the big, black double doors, and Cas mumbles, “Never anything good beyond double doors.”

Dean doesn’t know what to make of that until Sam pushes open the door.

Several feet in front of them are two vampires, hunched over the body of a security guard.

Seeing the three men, they stand up, and rush toward them, grinning maniacally, faces covered in blood.

Sam takes a step in front of Dean and Cas.

The vampires are close enough that Dean can see the whites of their eyes, and Sam raises his gun--

Suddenly, a police cruiser comes screeching around the corner and barrels over the vampires, who go flying, and comes to an abrupt stop in front of the three men.

Ruby Red, still in drag and not a hair out of place, leans out the window and asks with a grin, “How much you charge, sugar?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie. Can't remember all the canon vampire rules in SPN, too tired to look them up. I probably got some of it wrong.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean wants to live inside their love for eternity, to live inside this very moment forever, and never see the light of day."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Castiel's sexual education is finally complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't post yesterday because I got halfway through this chapter and hated it. So today I deleted it all and started over again. My sincerest apologies for that.
> 
> Good news though! I totally forgot to include the epilogue in my chapter count so we're not done yet! XD

Sam and Cas have both lost enough blood to warrant going to the ER, as much as they both gripe at Dean for it. Cas gets some stitches on his forehead, and his abdominal wound was only a shallow slash caused, apparently, by his heroic escape from not one, but two vampires that were detaining him.

Cas gets discharged from the ER after a couple hours, but the hospital keeps Sam overnight for observation.

Upon his discharge, Cas had told Dean, “I don’t understand why there’s paperwork and monetary transactions involved in healing the sick and injured. That seems cruel."

“God bless America," Dean replied, with his hand over his heart and a grin on his face.

Alex, still Ruby Red, waits the entire time in the ER with them, and takes them back to the bunker when they're finally allowed to go. On the way home, Dean tells Alex, “I’ve never sat in the _front_ of a cop car before.”

Dean turns back to look at Cas, who is passed out in the backseat from the long night and a large dose of vicodin.

Alex laughs, “Oh honey, if you ain’t just the quintessential bad boy with a heart of gold, I don’t know who is.” He pauses and adds, suddenly serious, “I can see now why my Innocent Castiel likes you so much.”

Dean fidgets in his seat. “Well, we all got our kinks.”

Alex eyes him from the side. “It’s more than a kink, doll. He’s 100% Deansexual. And I don’t think he’ll ever look at cowboys the same way again.”

Dean huffs a laugh in reply, and stares out his window.

They get back to the bunker and Dean opens his door, pausing. “Thanks for the ride,” he says, adding, “And, you know, saving our asses. So I guess I’ll see you later, man. I mean… ma’am.”

Alex laughs again. “Sweetie, I’ll be seeing you a lot sooner than you think,” and winks.

Dean looks at him quizzically and hops out of the car, opening the backseat door and leaning in to put his arm around Cas to help him out. Cas wakes up like a sleepy cat, and curls into Dean’s shoulder.

“C’mon, baby, you at least gotta stand up,” Dean whispers to him with a small chuckle.

“Nuh uh,” Cas mumbles with a slight shake of his head. Then, sighing, he brings one leg out of the car and then the other.

When he’s standing, Dean leans down, hooks an arm behind Cas’ knees, and picks him up.

Cas waves goodbye to Alex, who leans toward the passenger side window and tells him, “Feel better, baby gurl, and get some rest.”

Cas nods and curls back into Dean’s shoulder. Somehow, Dean manages to get his 6 foot tall, 200 lb, doped-up, injured, suddenly kitten-esque boyfriend down the steps of the bunker and into his bedroom.

He lays Cas gently on the bed and takes off his shoes and socks, then his own. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the chair in the corner, then crawls into bed next to Castiel.

They’re facing each other, a foot apart. The warm glow of the small lamp casts a shadow across Castiel's face, hiding his injuries.

Cas blinks his eyes slowly at Dean, who pulls himself closer to Cas and slips his knee between his legs. He puts his hand on Cas’ hip as Cas slides his leg up to hook around Dean’s waist.

“How are you feeling?” Dean whispers, looking from one bright blue eye to the other, searching for pain.

Castiel closes his eyes and sighs. “Good. Very good.”

“I think that’s the vicodin talking,” Dean replies with a smile.

Cas shakes his head. “Nope, all you.” Then adds, “Though the vicodin may be helping with the physical injuries, yes.”

Dean chuckles, and lifts his hand to gently caress the bruises and cuts on Castiel’s face, tracing the outlines of the dark purple spots and grazing the bumps of the cuts that have already scabbed over. He brings his face closer to Cas’ and begins brushing light kisses onto his wounds, making his way from his forehead to his cheekbone to his chin, and then rounding back up to kiss the small cut on Castiel’s bottom lip.

When Dean pulls away, Cas catches his lips with his own. The kiss is soft and chaste, until Cas gently licks Dean’s bottom lip. Dean gasps and parts his mouth, and Cas meets his tongue with his own, exploring his mouth and taking his time with it. They kiss slowly, languidly, pushing their bodies closer together until they’re completely tangled in one another.

They’re both filthy, covered in dried sweat and blood, but it just reminds Dean of how close he was to losing Castiel, and how he never wants to let him go again. This is who they are: dirty and wounded, with nothing to blame but the cards they’ve been dealt. The thing about Winchesters, though, is that they always make the best of their hand, even if they’ve got nothing.

But tonight, the only hand Dean has is Castiel’s, and he can feel it burning into his shoulder, right where Castiel had gripped him tight and raised him from perdition.

Cas nips at Dean’s bottom lip and then kisses his way down to his neck, gently biting and sucking and breathing deeply, inhaling Dean, while Dean has his hand in Castiel’s hair and starts breathing heavily too.

Dean pulls Cas’ face up to kiss him again, but this time it’s deeper, quicker, their breaths turning into sighs turning into moans, and suddenly Dean can feel Cas’ dick hard against his hip, and they’re rocking against each other, breaking apart only to gasp and groan.

Dean rolls on top of Cas without letting go of his lips, careful to not disturb any of his injuries, except for one. Before Dean breaks from the kiss, he licks the cut on Castiel’s lower lip. Cas’ breath hitches and his hips buck up to meet Dean’s. Dean does it again and Cas whines a quick moan, writhing beneath him.

Cas threads his fingers through Dean’s hair as Dean trails kisses and small bites down his chin and neck, and the small area of chest afforded to him by the v-neck his t-shirt. He licks the hollow of Cas’ throat and tastes the salt of Castiel’s sweat. Dean’s cock twitches at the sudden memory of Castiel on stage, reading his soul for all the world to hear. He moans, and whispers, “God, I love you so much,” between increasingly frantic kisses to all of Cas’ available skin.

Suddenly, Dean’s heart aches with such intense love that he can’t stand it anymore. He sits up and roughly drags his shirt over his head. He grasps the hem of Castiel’s shirts, and Cas sits up, letting him gently pull them off of him. If the motion hurts, Cas makes no indication of it. With swift fingers, Dean unbuckles Cas’ belt and unbuttons his pants while Cas lifts his hips up and Dean pulls them off of him in one smooth motion.

And there Cas is, smooth muscles of functional strength, bony hips, and the most beautiful expression of openness on his face that Dean has ever seen. He's Dean's best friend. His savior. His Carlo Marx. His love.

Dean looks him up and down and there’s this pressure in his chest, this primal _want_ , like he needs to scream and cry and fuck and destroy the earth. Destroy heaven. Destroy hell. Destroy purgatory. He wants to demolish every plane of reality so that the only perception he could ever possess is Castiel.

Dean wants to live inside their love for eternity, to live inside this very moment forever, and never see the light of day.

He leans down and kisses Castiel’s lips gently, holding his face in his hands, then proceeds to trail kisses over his chest. He stops at a nipple and rolls his tongue around it, which earns him a shocked hiss, then he continues downward. When he reaches Cas’ wound, he places a small kiss on the reddest spot of the bandage. He licks stripes up Castiel’s hips, and Cas rocks up into him, moaning, hands carded in Dean’s hair.

Cas’ cock is red and throbbing, beautiful with a bead leaking out the top of it and sliding slowly down the shaft. Dean stares at it, then licks it up, barely grazing Cas’ cock with his tongue.

Cas groans. “Dean, _please_.”

Dean can never say no to Cas, so he licks up Castiel a second time, harder and slower than the first, and Cas’ breath hitches. He slowly rolls a circle around the head of Castiel’s cock before placing his lips around it and taking him in.

Dean’s dick is painfully hard in his jeans, so he swiftly unbuttons them and slides them off of himself along with his briefs, bobbing his head languidly up and down Castiel, swirling his tongue around him.

Cas is panting and breathing out tiny moans of, “Dean, god, _Dean_.”

Dean takes him all the way in and grips the rest of him with his hand, sliding up and taking his mouth completely off of Cas, his hand following, then slides back down and takes him all the way back in again.

Castiel’s panting becomes more strained, and his thigh muscles tense, so Dean slows down until letting go of him completely and climbing back up his body to kiss him again.

He slides his cock on top of Cas’ and grasps them both in his hand, pulling at them as Cas thrusts harder into him and Dean keeps pace. They’re fucking Dean’s fist together, slick with spit, and panting into each other’s mouths.

It doesn’t take long before Dean feels that burning coil in his stomach and his muscles tense, and he knows Cas is close too because he’s lost all rhythm, pushing his hips chaotically into Dean’s fist and groaning, hands scratching down Dean’s back and grabbing his ass, pushing them closer together.

“ _Dean…_ ” Cas pleads, voice wrecked, moaning and whimpering, rocking into Dean with abandon.

Dean takes Castiel’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on his cut, tonguing the wound.

It pushes Cas over the edge, and with one final thrust, he comes with a shout of Dean's name.

Dean can feel Castiel’s heart beating loud and fast against him. He pulls away to look at Castiel’s face, still fucking himself and Castiel into his own fist, soaked with cum, and stares into Cas’ eyes: the warm blue ocean of heaven itself. He drowns in them as he crests, drowns in Castiel’s infinite love, and gasps out a long sob of pleasure as he rides his orgasm slowly downward.

Dean lets go and collapses next to Castiel, who turns toward him. They’re facing each other, again. And again, Dean puts his knee between Cas’ legs, and Cas hooks his leg around Dean’s waist. They pull each other closer together until every possible inch of skin is touching, not caring that they’re still covered in filth, not caring that they’re in pain, not caring that they carry the world upon on their shoulders.

They lay there for a long time, staring into each other and the vast expanse of their single, shared soul.

When Dean looks at Cas, he sees brilliance, and kindness, and truth. When Cas looks at Dean, he sees art, and honor, and strength.

To Dean, Castiel is not the man who fell from heaven. To Castiel, Dean is not the man who rose from hell.

They are not their history. They are not their destiny.

They are simply Castiel and Dean Winchester, and they are the only ones allowed to decide what that means.


	18. Epilogue, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean begins to piece it together, but he can’t believe it just yet."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein Castiel surprises Dean one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIED AGAIN. I couldn't stay awake to shove everything that happens in the epilogue into one chapter, so it's gonna be two! Because that's already happened like a thousand times while writing this fic!

Several weeks pass in a state of happily ever after-esque bliss. After the first week, Sam can no longer withstand the raucous sounds of sexual exploration that emit from a multitude of places in the bunker throughout each and every day, so he leaves again, going who knows where to do who knows what.

Samantha is being a whiny little bitch, but Dean is too in love to care.

Dean wakes up one morning, and opens his eyes to… the color yellow.

Just... yellow.

Briefly, he sleepily considers that maybe he went blind, and that blindness is the color yellow instead of black, until he realizes that there is a post-it note stuck to his forehead which is impeding his vision.

He peels it off and reads it.

_Meet me at The Emerald at noon. -C_

Scrawled below it is an afterthought:

_Please._

Dean turns his head to find Cas’ side of the bed completely empty, save for two pillows lined up behind his back where Castiel should have been.

He checks the clock. It’s 11, which gives him just enough time to shower, shave, and grab some grub. And hopefully not wrack his brain too much trying to figure out whatever Castiel has up his sleeve.

***

Dean walks over to The Emerald. The large brick building looks odd in the light of day, the neon green gem abstracted in the sun.

He enters the building, surprised the doors are open when the sign clearly states that they’re closed until 6PM. The large main room of the club looks eerie in the daylight, sun streaking through grimy windows onto the couches that line the walls which are normally in shadow. The wear and tear of the old building is noticeable during the day, and it looks more like an abandoned warehouse than a club.

The place is completely empty, so Dean does what he does at every single bar he he has ever gone into, whether it be open, closed, full of people, or bereft of them: he sits at the bar, and folds his hands.

He only waits a few moments until he sees a large black man in a tight black t-shirt and jeans, which look like they cost more than Sam’s entire Stanford tuition, coming down the stairs from the second floor.

“Hey, sweet pea, how you been?” he asks.

Dean cannot believe he didn’t recognize Alex without all the sequins and glitter. “Hey, man, I’m all right. And yourself?”

Alex slides behind the bar. “Five by five, sugar. What are you drinking?”

“It’s noon,” Dean replies with a glance at his watch.

Alex eyes him, and reaches below the bar. “So… mimosas, then?” and pulls out orange juice and champagne.

Dean considers that. “Yeah okay.”

Pouring both of them a flute of mostly champagne and just a hint of orange juice, Alex passes one to Dean and lifts his glass. Dean touches his to it, and Alex toasts, “To new beginnings.”

Dean narrows his eyes, but mimics the toast. “To new beginnings?”

Alex takes a sip of his drink and winks at him.

Setting down his drink, Dean asks, “So where’s Cas?”

“Just… putting on some final touches,” he replies with a sly smile.

A moment later, Cas walks down the steps from the second floor, dressed in what Dean lovingly refers to as his “hipster gear,” his new wardrobe, picked out with the help of Alex. He looks like an Abercrombie model.

Not that Dean goes to Abercrombie or anything.

Alex downs the rest of his mimosa in one gulp and then sets the glass down to rub his hands together in anticipation.

Dean looks from Cas to Alex back to Cas again as he approaches.

“Good afternoon, Dean,” he says, and when he gets close enough, leans in to kiss him gently on the lips.

“Good afternoon, Cas,” Dean replies in the same way. “May I ask what we’re doing at an empty drag bar at noon on a Tuesday?”

Cas grins, and takes his hand. “Follow me.”

Castiel leads Dean up a staircase and through a maze of hallways, all decorated in neon-colored paint with explicit quotes and drawings. Alex follows close behind, a Cheshire cat grin plastered to his eager face.

They reach a set of double doors, absent of neon graffiti, and Cas tells Dean, “Close your eyes.”

Dean closes them. “But you said nothing good is ever behind double doors.”

“I lied.” Cas opens the door and leads Dean through it. They stop, and Cas grasps Dean by the shoulders, turning him slightly. “Okay, open your eyes.”

Dean opens them, and looks around.

It’s just a room. They’re standing on a balcony platform that looks over a large square of hardwood flooring. The balcony leads to a spiral staircase.

Dean begins to piece it together, but he can’t believe it just yet.

He crosses in front of Cas and walks down the spiral staircase, slowly, picking up the details of the room.

The hardwood flooring is all too familiar to him, but it’s pristine. Mirrors cover both the front and back wall. There’s a bar at waist height in front of one of them, spanning the length of the room. There are small speakers hung in each corner, and an empty desk in front of glass doors that lead to the busy main road outside.

Dean reaches the bottom of the staircase. Ten steps. It’s so perfect that Dean wonders if Cas is hypnotising him.

He steps onto the perfect new floor, and sees at last the fourth wall of the studio.

In big block letters, white on top of steel gray, are the words, _“Dean’s Dance Studio.”_

Underneath it are several items in frames. Apprehensively, Dean steps closer to them, hand covering his mouth in awe.

There’s a poster with a typewriter on it that says “I am with you in Rockland, where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter;” a print-out of “O Divinity;” Elliott Smith’s _XO_ , matted with the CD and jacket; his “THE COWBOY IS BACK” poster from The Saloon; the cocktail napkin that reads “COSMOPOLITAN TRANSGENDER;” a receipt from Taco Bell for two combo meals with large Baha Blasts; and, finally, an enormous black feather encased in a shadow box.

Dean traces his finger gently on top of the glass, following the curve of the feather. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, solemn.

Dean takes a step back to the wall and gestures toward the whole room. “And is this…?”

“Yes,” Cas replies again. “It’s yours.”

Dean steps back and looks up at Alex, who is leaning over the platform, looking down at them and grinning.

“I don’t…” Dean begins. “I can’t…”

Castiel stands in front of him, takes both his hands into his own, and looks him in the eye. “You can.”

Dean is speechless. He has so many questions but he can’t articulate any of them.

So he takes Castiel’s face between his hands and kisses him like he’s never kissed anyone before. His heart is hammering in his chest, and Cas’ hands are on his waist and his mouth is smiling onto his own, and Dean has never been happier in his entire life.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Alex interrupts, walking down the spiral staircase. “There are, unfortunately, some business matters we need to discuss.”

Dean reluctantly pulls away from Castiel to face the other shoe dropping on this situation.

“First,” Alex begins, “Dean’s Dance Studio is an affiliate of The Emerald. The monthly rent is $1 for tax purposes. In exchange for operating, I request that you train and choreograph The Jade Tricks, and emcee three nights a week as The Cowboy. You don’t have to strip if you don’t want, but you know everyone on God’s green earth would love it if you did. There’s still a lot of work to be done getting the studio up and running, and there’s a bit of paperwork to sign, but baby, after that, it’s _all_ yours.”

Dean doesn’t cry very often (or so he tells himself), but goddamn if he can’t hold back the flood of emotion that hits him at that very moment when he thinks about Shannon, and how far he’s come in his life to get to where he is now, and then he finally breaks down when he thinks about how much Castiel loves him, to band with Alex and put this all together for him, how Cas has always just loved him for exactly who he is at his very core.

That pressure builds up in Dean’s chest again, it rises to his throat, and all he can do is turn to Cas and wrap his arms around him, planting his face in his neck, and cry tears of joy.

Castiel holds him. “So… you like it?”

“Uh huh." The sound is muffled in Castiel's neck.

Cas kisses what parts of Dean’s head he can reach, and whispers, “But you haven’t even seen the best part yet.”

Dean pulls away and sniffles, wiping at his face. “There’s more?”

Grinning, Cas nods, and goes to the corner of the room to open a door.

Inside is a smaller studio space, with mirrors lining each wall, and a pole in the middle.

There is also a long ribbon of fabric reaching from the ceiling and pooling onto the floor, amongst other contraptions hanging from the ceiling that Dean has never seen. 

“For training purposes,” Alex supplies, standing behind them.

Cas clears his throat. “Training. Yes.”

“ _Aerial dancing?_ ” Dean asks, incredulous. “You want me to do aerial dancing. I don’t know how to do that.”

“Honey,” Alex tells him. “You are a god among male strippers everywhere. I have no doubt in my mind that you will be wrapped up in that thing twenty feet high and rolling down it with ease in a matter of minutes. Same with whatever the hell all these other things are too.”

Dean feels like a kid in a candy store. The astonishment has abated and he is now filled with a level of excitement he hasn’t felt since he woke up on Christmas morning when he was 4 years old.

He can’t wait another second. He toes his shoes and socks off and walks toward the ribbon, mesmerized, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the ground, then pulling his shirt over his head, and gingerly stepping out of his jeans until he’s only in his briefs. He hops up on the ribbon and hooks it around his leg.

Just like Alex predicted, it only takes Dean a matter of minutes before he’s gotten the hang of it, and twists the fabric around his body, knotting it and spinning it and rolling out of it, back up, then down again, letting his body learn for itself this brand new art he’s found.

“ _Damn_ ,” Alex gapes. “Is he always this hot?”

Cas clears his throat again. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want it to end. :'( (Queue sad Ten gif "I don't want to go.") But it has to, so I can move on to my sexy Shakespeare narratives. 
> 
> (Spoiler: I'm turning "Taming of the Shrew" into a story about an angry boxer who's down on his luck and agrees to become the devil's sex slave. Wheee!)


	19. Epilogue, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The intensity is too much: Cas thinks he might break, but he trusts Dean. Trusts him to push Cas to the edge without tipping him over it."
> 
> ***
> 
> Wherein it's really, truly, finally over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote 50,000 words in less than three weeks. Those words have already been viewed over 7,000 times, received over 400 kudos, and have gotten almost 200 comments. This fic, and your feedback, have been life-changing for me. Words cannot express the extent of my gratitude for your kindness and your praise. I started writing this fic in a very dark place, having recently severed a close friendship that left me feeling empty and alone, and now that I've reached the end of it, I feel completely renewed. There was a lot of myself in this fic, which is generally a creative writing no-no, but I just put everything I knew and felt and wanted into it, and the fact that you have shown me that you like it is incredibly affirming. You are all my Alexes and my Shannons and my Katarinas and my Ginas. 
> 
> That said, I've begun writing under a different pseudonym. I have my next two novels outlined, which will be narrative versions of "The Taming of the Shrew" (about an underground MMA fighter who becomes the Devil's sex slave) and "Much Ado About Nothing" (about mobsters and pirates doing business on a tropical island wherein hilarious romantic chaos ensues). I want to keep in touch with you all, so [I made a tumblr specifically for my writing](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com), poetry, and various creative updates, so if you want, follow me, and I'll follow you, and we can continue supporting each other on this common ground we've built.
> 
> UPDATE: [Here's a meta reference guide](http://bettydays.tumblr.com/post/85444498622/meta-reference-guide-to-sex-101) to this fic, which includes pictures and additional details and explanations of things. 
> 
> I love reading reviews of this fic, so if you write something about it on tumblr or twitter, you can use the tag "sex 101 verse."

The curtain rises.

The silhouette of a man straddling a chair, wearing a pinstriped suit and fedora is outlined by a dim light behind him. His head is down, hat tipped low over his face.

[ _Feeling my way through the darkness… Guided by a beating heart…_ ](http://youtu.be/IcrbM1l_BoI)

The spotlight hits him as he lifts his head to face a massive, screaming audience.

He stands up and, to the beat of the music, steps up on the chair and tilts it down, then rolls out swiftly out of it. On his knees, he spins, flips up on one hand, and stands back up. Gazing across the crowd, he takes off the hat and throws it at them, leaping into the air and back flipping, then grabbing up the chair and spinning it on one leg around him.

Castiel watches from the back of the main room of The Emerald as Dean does what he does best: not killing, as he says, “evil motherfuckers,” but dancing.

Tonight, Dean is not a hunter. He is not The Cowboy. He’s not taking off his clothes or collecting bills in a besequined g-string. Dean is showcasing his very own grace, fully clothed.

And the crowd loves it. Loves him. Just as Cas loves him. For everything he is. Castiel’s heart swells at the thought, a slew of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

The only parallel to Dean’s dancing ability, Cas thinks, is his talent in bed. Which Castiel now groks in full.

Watching Dean dance in front of hundreds of people while remembering last night-- being hogtied, gagged, filled by Dean until Cas came without even being touched-- leaves Cas’ mouth dry and his cock hard.

The routine ends with a grand finale of Dean spinning in a long series of pirouettes around the stage, stopping abruptly and sitting on the chair as he began, lights going out the moment the song ends.

The crowd goes wild, and Cas has to re-adjust himself.

***

Dean bounces backstage after thanking the crowd for coming out and announcing The Jade Tricks. He’s breathless, still riding the high of the screaming audience after his first night as the new emcee of The Emerald, and, earlier, teaching his first dance class as the owner of his own dance studio.

His first class had been children’s beginner ballet, his old favorite, and there were a dozen chubby, clumsy little kids scampering about the studio. Dean failed miserably on his first day, simply because he couldn’t keep a straight face. He’d do better next week, he told himself. Today he had just been too damn happy to take it seriously.

Waiting for him at his dressing room are three of Dean’s five favorite living people on earth: Alex, Katarina, and Gina.

As he approaches them, it takes him a moment to realize he has never seen the three of them in the same company before, yet it dawns on him that they would all probably get along very well.

“ _Mi amor!_ ” Katarina exclaims, pulling him into a hug.

“What are you guys doing here?” Dean asks, astonished, squeezing Katarina tight, then pulling away to hug Gina.

“That blue-eyed fella called us and told us about your show. Casanova or something,” Gina replies.

Alex pipes up, “Oh. My. _God._ Casanova. I’m calling him that forever now. By the way, sugar, your ladies here are _amazing_.”

“Yeah. They really are.” Dean stares in awe at Katarina and Gina. “I can’t believe you came all the way from Dallas to see my show. Sam didn’t even want to see it.”

The door to Dean’s dressing room opens. Sam, leaning on the door frame and looking sheepish, says, “Yes I did, jerk.”

Dean beams. “Bitch.”

Alex does a double-take when he sees Sam and looks him up and down. Without tearing his eyes away from Sam’s chest, he says, “Dean. Honey. This your brother?”

“Unfortunately,” Dean replies.

Taking a step toward Sam and placing his hand on his chest, Alex tells them, “I’d love to be a good host to your honeys, honey, but y’all gonna have to give me a few minutes while I insist on getting further acquainted with this chiseled marble god of a man.” He pushes Sam, bewildered, into the dressing room and closes the door behind him.

Katarina looks at the closed door. “That man. He owns this place?”

“Every brick,” Dean tells them.

Pouting, Katarina looks to Gina and bats her eyes.

“Ugh!” Gina exclaims. “ _Fine._ We’ll talk business with him before we head home. Even I gotta admit he seems to run a tight ship around here. But no sleeping with him!”

Katarina pouts more. “That’s no fun. But it’s for the best. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since the day he was born.” She turns to Dean. “Brunch tomorrow morning, _mi amor_? So we can hear all about this crazy adventure you’ve had?”

Dean grins so much his face hurts. “Absolutely.”

Gina and Katarina both hug him again. “Text us in the morning,” Gina says. “We gotta go back to the hotel and make sure the boys haven’t traumatized that poor babysitter too bad.”

Katarina pulls away, caressing his cheek. “You did beautifully, _mi amor_. You are doing the world a great service by sharing your gift.”

Dean holds her hand and smiles serenely at her. “Thank you. Both of you. For everything. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Right now?” Gina asks. “Probably fucking your boyfriend. Oh, speaking of…” She pulls out a folded slip of paper from her back pocket. “Casanova asked me to give this to you.”

Dean takes the note and they part ways after another goodbye, promising to meet up again in the morning.

Unfolding the note, Dean sees that it’s a yellow post-it with the sticky part folded over onto itself. In Cas’ familiar, neat handwriting, it says:

_Meet me in your studio when you get this. -C_

There is no “please” at the end of it.

***

Dean meets Cas in his studio, still wearing his perfectly tailored pinstripe suit and the shiny red tie from his act.

“I got your post-it,” Dean tells him with a grin, walking down the spiral steps and stopping in front of Cas at the bottom.

From behind his back, Castiel pulls out a dozen red roses. “Congratulations, Dean.”

Dean beams at him. No one has ever given him flowers. “What for?” He takes them and puts them to his nose, inhaling deeply.

Castiel beams back. “For dancing for the first time in front of people fully clothed. For teaching your first class at the studio. For being the best boyfriend-slash-dancer-slash-hunter in the world...” Cas steps closer into Dean’s space, staring into his eyes, and lowers his voice while trailing his finger down Dean’s tie, “For making me come without touching me.”

Dean stares back at Cas, eyes darkening. He sets the flowers down on the desk next to them and backs Cas up against the mirrored wall, bunching up his t-shirt in his fists and, face inches from his, whispers, “God I love you so fucking much,” before crushing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

Dean sucks on his bottom lip, likely adding to the array of bruises he has already left on Castiel over the past few weeks as a result of their tireless lovemaking.

Cas breaks away from Dean’s mouth, and trails fierce kisses down his throat, biting and sucking and grasping every part of him he can reach.

Voice barely above a rumble, Dean asks, “Cas?”

Castiel sucks at the hollow of his throat while he unbuttons Dean’s suit jacket, and mumbles back, “Mhm?”

Dean moans as Cas bites into him. “Johnny Cash?”

Cas breaks away, surprised. “You want to scene? Here?”

Mischievous, Dean smiles and nods.

Cas swallows and nods once. “Johnny Cash.”

A fire flashes in Dean’s eyes as he takes Castiel’s throat and presses him harder against the mirror, staring him in the eye as he presses their cocks together. He leans in and takes Castiel’s earlobe between his teeth while grinding against him. Cas gasps, and Dean whispers, “Already hard for me. You’re such a fucking _slut_ , Cas.”

Cas plays the reluctant sub, and pushes Dean away from him, wrapping his tie around his fist, and dragging him into the pole room.

Castiel shuts the door behind them and presses Dean against it, rutting against Dean until he lets out a sharp moan. They continue grinding as they tear clothes off of each other: Cas unbuttoning Dean’s suit jacket all the way and shoving it off of him, and Dean pulling Castiel's shirt over his head.

Cas doesn’t let Dean go any further before swiftly unzipping Dean’s fly and pulling out his rock hard dick, pumping it with his fist as he crushes their mouths together again.

Dean growls, and threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair, while hooking his leg around the back of Cas’ knees and kicking inward, forcing Cas to kneel in front of Dean’s beautifully swollen, slick cock.

Grabbing his own dick, Dean commands, “Open, slut.”

Cas wants to play stubborn, but he wants Dean in his mouth even more, so he obeys, opening wide and letting Dean guide himself in.

Dean grips the back of Castiel’s head as he slowly fucks his throat.

Cas is moaning around him, gripping his thighs and then moving up to cup his balls gently through his pants.

Dean’s breath hitches, and he momentarily forgets the scene as he whines out Cas’ name.

Taking a deep breath, Dean pulls himself from Castiel’s eager mouth. “Stand up and get undressed,” he commands.

As Cas quickly sheds his clothing, Dean pulls a tall bistro chair in front of the ribbon hanging from the ceiling.

“Sit,” he tells Cas.

Cas sits down on the cold chair, staring with anticipation onto Dean as he paces, appraising the situation.

Dean lets out a small, deep laugh, and unthreads his tie from his neck. “You’re gonna _love_ this.”

Kneeling, Dean takes Cas' left elbow and places it on his left knee, securing them together with his tie. He stands, reaching behind Cas to grab the ribbon. Looping the ribbon around the back of the chair, he then ties together Castiel’s other elbow and knee, taking the remaining slack of ribbon and tying his hands together too.

He double-checks the knotwork, and stands again to circle around to the back of the chair, lifting the triangle comprised of Castiel’s hands, elbows, and knees, and ties Castiel’s hands to the back of the chair.

There is no slack. Castiel can’t move. The effect of this has rendered Cas completely spread-eagle, legs wide open in the air, and spine contorted at an uncomfortable angle. He is exposed and helpless to Dean’s will.

Cas is so turned on by the position, and the discomfort, and his own immobility, that he’s panting, fearing impending orgasm without having been fucked or touched at all.

Dean kneels in front of him again, pulling him forward to the edge of the chair so that, were he not steadily secured, he would fall off of it. Spreading his cheeks apart, Dean slowly circles Castiel’s entrance with his tongue.

This is completely new to Castiel, who immediately gasps and groans in pleasure at the touch. Dean begins circling faster, harder, finally entering Cas with his tongue and fucking him with it slowly.

Castiel begins shouting in pleasure because he has nothing to bite down on. He can’t move, he can’t think, he can only let wave after wave of intensity hit him without an ounce of actual relief. His dick is begging to be touched and his ass is begging to be fucked, but all Dean does is tease him relentlessly with the tip of his tongue for what seems like eternity.

Finally, Dean stands. His cock is still at attention outside of his pants, and he rolls up his sleeves slowly. Crossing the room to pick up Castiel’s jeans, he pulls out a small tube of lubricant and a condom from his front pocket. He chuckles. “Always prepared to be fucked. You dirty whore.”

Castiel whimpers. His cock is twitching, dripping onto his stomach, and his mind is beginning to unravel with want. He wants Dean inside of him _right now_. He _needs_ Dean inside of him.

Dean crosses back over to Castiel and uncaps the lube, smearing some on his fingers. He leans over him and places a hand on the back of the chair as he stares into Castiel’s eyes, blown open with want, and circles his entrance with two fingers.

The gel is cold, but Castiel has already been conditioned to the pleasure that follows so much that he hisses more in euphoria than discomfort.

Dean presses two fingers in and Castiel screams again. Dean is a methodical dom, and preps his sub slowly, so that being spread open by Dean is more like being taken apart, piece by piece. He thrusts slow and deep, watching every expression on Castiel’s face as he strokes his own dick.

Finally, he blissfully adds a third finger and Castiel can no longer hear the sounds he’s making. He just knows he can’t control them. “Dean Dean Dean please I love you _please_ fuck me I love you I _love_ you just fuck me I need you inside me oh god Dean _please_ …” Castiel is out of his mind with want.

Dean stands up straight, a low laugh in his throat, and unbuttons his pants the rest of the way, sliding them with his briefs down to his thighs. He rips open the condom package and rolls it on.

He teases Cas by rubbing himself against him, and Cas tries to get more friction, but the binds have made him completely immobile, so he just squirms.

Dean leans down and licks Castiel’s bottom lip before sucking it between his teeth and kissing Cas deeply. Pulling away, Dean rumbles, “May I?” still sliding against Castiel’s opening.

“ _YES!_ ” Cas shouts, voice breaking.

Dean finally, ever so slowly enters him, filling Castiel until he at last feels wonderfully complete.

When he’s all the way in, Dean leans down again and kisses Cas sweetly, until Cas whispers, “Move. Please. Fuck me, Dean. _Please._ ”

That’s all Dean needs before he pulls out and pushes back in again, quickening his pace with every thrust of his hips into Castiel.

The chair is eating into Cas’ shoulder blades, but when Dean wraps a fist around Castiel’s dick and starts stroking him in time with his own thrusts, the concepts of pain and pleasure completely eclipse and every neuron in Castiel’s brain is firing nirvana. The intensity is too much: Cas thinks he might break, but he trusts Dean. Trusts him to push Cas to the edge without tipping him over it.

Cas finally reaches the edge, and he’s babbling, close to hyperventilating, his muscles are limp and numb, and his vision begins to blur.

He manages to choke out a broken plea of, “Dean, can I…”

Dean’s thrusts and strokes become erratic and his breathing quickens. He squeezes his eyes shut and nods, barely able to mumble out a, “Mhm.”

Cas is balanced precariously at the edge, but Dean has him. Cas forces his eyes open to stare at the beautiful figure of Dean pounding into him, and he switches his angle so that he presses against Castiel’s sweet spot, and he’s finally there, mind exploding, coming hot streaks onto his own chest and neck and face, pulling Dean with him as they come together screaming each other’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Sex 101. I welcome you to give me your thoughts/feedback/insight on it, or life, the universe, and everything. Thank you so much again. I adore you all. <3
> 
> Update: After a truly overwhelming amount of feedback on this fic, it has been brought to my attention that many people would like me to begin writing beyond the scope of fanfic (while also still writing a gratuitous amount of fanfic, of course), so if you're interested in staying apprised of my writerly endeavors, please feel free to join my mailing list. I'll only email you when I have published stuff outside of AO3. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Join my legion of doom here.](http://form.jotform.us/form/41767892250159#_=_)


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